


A Den of Vipers

by deathofaraven



Series: Shattered Albion [3]
Category: Fable (Video Games), Fable 3 (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Compliant, I'm beginning to wonder if they'll ever get together like I've been promising y'all, Multi, Traitor's Keep AU no one asked for, Unresolved Tension, a little less slow burn & a lot more low angry simmer, seriously this is closer to the DLC than I would have liked and I'm displeased, this is not a group of characters I EVER expected to have as my character list but what do
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-06
Updated: 2018-02-05
Packaged: 2019-02-11 05:54:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 51,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12928911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathofaraven/pseuds/deathofaraven
Summary: Two years have passed since the Crawler was defeated. Two years of peace and reform under a benevolent Queen. But not everyone is happy with the regime. The criminal underworld is full of whispers—whispers of those who seek a greater change: an end to the aristocracy. An end to the Queen herself. But what is the bigger threat to Albion’s peace: those who plot against her or the Darkness still lurking within?





	1. Death and Taxes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: I've edited MoI recently, if you haven't read it in a while, you might want to reread it. It's up to you.

_Nails—talons, clawing chasms into her flesh. Rivers of scarlet drenching her limbs in warm stickiness. Long fingers clenched tightly around her throat. She could see her reflection in the gilded mirror to her right: nightgown clinging to her sweat-drenched body, heels digging into her mattress, and fingers scrabbling to claw at the hands of an invisible tormentor._

_“There is_ nothing _left for you,” it crooned, grip tightening with every effort she made to struggle. “Poor lost lamb…embrace the Darkness...ours is the way of love…ours is the way of death…."_

No! No, get out! Get away! You’re not welcome here!

 _“It is you who is unwelcome, tainted,_ worthless…hush now… _why must you try so hard? We are_ inside _you…we have brought you_ peace _. Death is so easy and soon there will be_ nothing _left…”_

 _Her Will filled her veins, adding to the painful pressure at her throat. There was nothing to direct it to. Her vision began to ebb—fog swirling before her eyes._ No….

 _It chuckled, low and euphoric, as it murmured, “Do you feel the joy the Darkness brings you? Do you feel it_ crawl _through your veins? Tell me…tell me how it feels….” It loosened its grip just enough for her to cough on a breath. “Tell me….”_

 _“It…it feels…it feels like_ this _.” Will pooled in her hands, exploding outwards in a burst of pale, bright light. The pressure on her throat and chest vanished. Screams of agony tore through her mind, making her head throb and ears bleed. Her body burned as though she’d been lit aflame._

_When the light faded, she was left alone and weak. Breaths coming in short gasps._

_“I warned you…I warned you…,” she whispered over and over again, panting as she collapsed against her mattress; dampened with sweat and blood._

_And there she lay, alone and bleeding in the dark, until the dawn finally came._

~ * ~

“Stop shoving!”

“Quiet down!”

“ _You_ shove off!”

Dusk in Bowerstone and the stars were already out—silvered freckles glittering through a haze of cloud. Though those that lived in the expansive manors perched along the road to the castle were beginning to settle in for the night, those who dwelled in the city below were showing few signs of quieting down. The pubs were full to bursting with patrons—both travellers and Bowerstone residents. A fisherman was making a futile attempt at selling the last of his spoiled wares. A baker in the Old Quarter was handing out the last of their unsellable bread to a beggar. For the moment, everything seemed to be proceeding as usual…with the exception of the crowd gathered outside Bowerstone Castle. They’d been gathered there for a few hours and were making no attempts at dissipating.

“Her Royal Majesty is not holding court today!” a guard finally managed to proclaim over the din of the group gathered at the base of the stairs. He was an unremarkable-looking man with a bored voice that suggested this was not the first time he’d made such an announcement today. “Please disperse and go about your business elsewhere!”

Jericho sighed, edging through the disgruntled crowd. Men and women in their simple work clothes stood almost shoulder-to-shoulder with nobles draped in opulent finery and beggars clad in rags; every one of them clamouring to be heard by their Queen. Jericho was of mixed opinion on the crowd’s presence. On one hand, such a varied group of people kept attention away from her and her work leathers. On the other…they disconcerted her, setting her nerves on edge. She did _not_ have time for this. Back home, there were cases to be solved—people she knew for a fact were in trouble—and suffering through this mob just to speak to Queen Victoria for a few moments wasn’t entirely worth it. However, she also had vital information for Her Majesty, so she had little choice but to endure.

“Why not?” someone called to the guard.

“Because Chamberlain Hobson has declared that today is a good day to take care of important matters of state,” the guard replied evenly, looking as though he regretted every moment of his life as fresh complaints arose.

“Then you can tell Chamberlain Hobson to kiss my hairy arse!”

“Excuse me,” Jericho murmured to the guard as she finally reached his side. “I understand you are busy, but I need to go in. I need to speak with Her Majesty.”

The guard grimaced, tobacco-stained teeth gritting as if she’d just insulted his mother. Exasperated, he replied, “Ma’am, I’ll tell you what I’ve told everyone else: I can’t let you in unless you work here or have an invitation.”

“I _have_ an invitation,” she informed him briskly, reaching into the pocket of her woollen cloak and retrieving an envelope bearing the Queen’s personal seal. Jericho handed it over carefully, making an effort not to touch him, and stuffed her hands into her pockets once the envelope was safely in the guard’s possession.

He opened it and looked it over, ignoring the shouts and insults being hurled his way, before turning his gaze warily back up to her. “What did you say your name was?”

“I did not state it, but it is Serafina Dubois. I assume you were informed I might arrive?”

The guard glanced questioningly over at his counterpart—a thin, pockmarked man with enormous mutton chops—and waited as he flipped through a pamphlet. After a few moments of exceptionally slow page turning, the thin guard looked up and gave a short nod.

“Right,” the first guard said, knocking hard on the castle’s door exactly twice. “Seems in order.”

“Hang on! Why does _she_ get to go in?!” someone in the crowd fumed.

“Because she has an invitation, you daft chit!” the guard snapped, temper clearly beginning to reach its limit.

“I have an invitation!” a man put in hopefully.

“Your mum’s knickers, you do!”

The door cracked open just enough for a servant—who appeared no more pleased by the crowd than Jericho or the guards were—to poke their head out and frown at the guard. “What?”

“She has an invitation and needs to see the Queen,” the guard explained, gesturing towards Jericho almost helplessly. The detective was beginning to wish she truly was invisible.

“They’re still arguing,” the servant replied dryly, moving to close the door.

The guard sighed, rubbing at his eyes. “Just take her in. Her Majesty said petitioners with an invitation could wait in her study.”

“You sure you want to come in?” the servant queried, turning her frown on Jericho instead. “They’ve been at it since breakfast. Even Cook’s about fed up.”

Jericho glanced up at the sky. It was swiftly growing darker, stars growing more pronounced. She didn’t mind the night—it was actually her preferred time of day to do anything—but the air was quickly growing colder, reminding Albion’s residents that, despite the snow having melted, it was still technically winter. _Perhaps the petitioners and courtiers will have no choice but to leave soon._ She would _not_ have bet on it, though. “Then they should be finished soon, should they not?”

Muttering under their breath in blatant disapproval, the servant straightened up and pulled the door open further. Jericho thought she caught the murmur of “ _on your own head be it_ ” as she began her ascent up the last of the steps. A commotion swelled behind her once more and, alarmed, she half turned toward it, wishing she’d thought to bring her walking stick. Her concern was for naught. A man had attempted to follow her but now found a guard and his rifle standing much too close for anyone’s comfort. Sighing, Jericho followed the servant inside.

“Look here,” the guard barked. “I’ll only say it once more: the only way you’re getting in here today is if you’ve got an invitation, you need to get in for work, or…maybe if you’re an accountant.”

“I’m an accountant!” someone called out.

“Then…could you…maybe help me with my taxes?”

~ * ~

“No; absolutely not!” Victoria snapped, barely managing to keep from putting her head in her hands and rubbing at the bridge of her nose. She was exhausted…and furious. To this day she didn’t understand what Walter had been thinking when he’d hired Hobson. The man reminded her of a toad—short, fat, and slippery—though he was greedy enough to put a magpie to shame. Not to mention he had _the worst_ ideas for how to run a country…and that was even taking into account the ones Reaver—whom Victoria had long ago come to regard as bad decisions in a good suit—came up with. “Firstly, that is _absolutely repugnant!_ Secondly, even if I could find enough merit in this to even _consider_ suggesting it to the Court, everyone in this castle would be dragged into the streets and hanged!”

“But, Your Majesty, if we taxed the people per every child in their household, it would—”

“I don’t give a damn what benefit you think it might have! I have no desire to alienate my people or make things harder for those whose lives are already difficult!”

“Then we have no choice but to raise the tax further!” Hobson insisted, ruddy jowls wobbling slightly in his fervour. Victoria had never seen him so adamant before, but it did nothing to sway her position. If anything, it made her wonder if someone was paying him to push their views. _Reaver?_ No, it didn’t sound like him. _One of the other noble families, then? Perhaps someone else who had supported Droogan’s failed campaign?_ That sounded a bit more likely, but still raised a question of exactly whom.

“We will do _no such thing!_ ” she shouted back, feeling a faint stirring of her Will in response to her growing ire. “Even without collecting taxes for this year, the treasury is full enough that we could renovate much of Albion and Aurora without risk of running out of gold—much less what’s needed for _actual_ upkeep. There is _no reason_ to raise the tax levels or implement extreme measures. And there will be _no further discussion_ on this.”

They both fell silent—Victoria seated on the stairs leading up to her currently empty throne, documents littering the ground around her in neat stacks, and Hobson standing to her left, balancing several sheaves of parchment atop a slate. They both glared at each other, their egos clashing as they both silently willed the other to give in. And then Hobson seemed to remember himself and who he was challenging and the moment passed. He quickly tore his gaze away from her to stare down at his papers. Victoria couldn’t help but take a measure of pride in that. There was only one person her glares had no effect on and she had no desire to expand the list to someone who was supposedly intending to help her.

“Very well, Your Majesty,” Hobson finally replied in a tone like an oiled serpent, though something in his words suggested he wanted to sigh at her as he made a note. “I will ensure the policies remain unchanged.” _For now_. Though he didn’t say it, Victoria could hear the words clearly. She knew perfectly well the argument would resume next year and already was beginning to dread it. “And what shall I put for the school and academy budgets this year?”

Victoria picked up a few documents, rifling through them in an attempt to find the records of previous budgets. “What are they asking for?”

“The same as last year, I’d imagine.”

“Then that’s what we’ll give them. As usual, set aside a buffer in the event additional funding is needed.”

“I will do so. Ah—Bowerstone’s University is requesting assistance in renovating its laboratories for their medical students.”

Victoria frowned, rifling through her documents quickly to try and find the estimated sums. “Where—?”

“Page six, Ma’am.”

“Oh! _…oh_.” Frown deepening, she bit her lip. “How long would it take to refurbish…?”

“Structurally, I believe the estimation was nearly six months—the laboratories are in the oldest wing of the university, or so I’m told.”

“Alright, then,” Victoria said with a sigh. “Let them know we’ll help with the structural repair. If they can’t afford new equipment, they may petition once more when the wing is repaired.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

The sound of Hobson’s writing filled the room and Victoria stretched, wishing she were anywhere but there. _So tired_. Sleep refused to come most nights and the potions meant to help no longer did. Stress and overwork, she was certain, played part of the reason for her insomnia. Being possessed by a creature of the Void that wanted to use her as a puppet and delighted in making her relive her worst memories probably also had something to do with it. But it wasn’t as though she could go tell anyone about that. If she was lucky, the citizens of Albion would call for her removal from the throne. If she was unlucky, they’d call for a removal of her _head_. Neither option was one she really favoured. What she really needed was a way to get the Crawler under her control—to either silence it for good or to ally it with herself. However, none of her research into the arcane had thus far provided any useful results.

Yawning and pushing several long strands of mahogany hair behind her ear, Victoria straightened up. A shiver slid down her spine as an icy breeze hit her bare neck. _A…breeze?_ None of the windows or doors were open and there was no one else in the room but them. Something felt wrong. The big room was as stifling and oppressive as always—the wood panelled walls were stern and severe even with the portraits of people Victoria would never know hanging before them. The violet rugs were too thin to even hint at comfort and the suits of armour lining the hall—each mounted before a column—seemed like a solemn funeral guard. At this hour, the room was shadowy and the stained glass window heading the room was dull and almost lifeless. Nothing seemed to be out of place. But still her skin prickled as though she were under observation as she slowly scanned the room.

“Getting back to business, Ma’am; I believe Lord Reaver has an—” He paused at the finger being held up in his general direction and frowned. “Whatever is wro—?”

“Someone’s here that shouldn’t be; we’re being watched,” she replied, casually dropping her hand to reach for the long dagger in her knee-high boot. Her reach was interrupted as she flung herself to the side, only narrowly avoiding a throwing knife. She’d barely had time to spot a dark-clothed figure clinging to an alcove near the ceiling when she was pushed into action once more—stumbling almost to her feet to shove Hobson down and out of danger as another knife was loosed. “Hide!”

She shifted easily into a crouch and wrenched her dagger free of her boot just in time to see the figure drop down to the floor of the throne room, yanking his scarf from his mouth with one hand and drawing a sword with the other.

“What, by Avo…?” she murmured, trying to both ready herself and wrap her head around the intruder.

“Am I too late for an audience, _Your Majesty_?” he snarled, spitting out the honorific as though it tasted disgusting. As he slunk closer, she noticed his head had been poorly shaved and what few teeth he seemed to have were rotting.

“Who _are_ you?” she enquired, mystified. Perhaps it was wrong of her, but she felt more bewildered than she did angry or afraid. She’d never had someone sneak in with the intention of harming her before—which, if she really thought about it, was surprising in itself. At the thought, a rush of fury swept through her; burning with ire that someone would dare attack them. _No. No, not us. There is no_ us _. Just_ me _. I am myself and no one else_ , she told herself furiously. But there was an echo of laughter that was not her own behind her thoughts and the words felt uncertain.

Even knowing it was coming, she was not prepared for the ferocity with which he attacked her. He lunged and she attempted to dodge. It wasn’t entirely successful. She felt a sudden, burning sting in her shoulder, but ignored it in favour of continuing to move. Eager to end this quickly, Victoria attempted to duck under his guard—if she could disable his sword arm, then she stood a chance of forcing answers from him. But it didn’t work. He dropped his reach, swinging low, and Victoria was keenly aware that, had she been fractionally slower in stepping back, she would have been dead.

She finally managed to interrupt his sword with her dagger on the next strike, driving it away from her with less strength than she should have had. She could feel the shock of the impact reverberate through her arm. Worry followed it. Clearly this man was skilled, but he _couldn’t_ be skilled enough to best a Hero… _could_ he? She didn’t want to find out. This was getting far too risky. _Stop fighting me_ , she thought, searching for the presence clawing at the back of her mind. _He wants to_ kill _us_.

 _Yes…and why would you believe I desire you alive?_ the Crawler replied with a dragging hiss as Victoria countered another strike.

 _Because you won’t survive without me_.

She slashed at the would-be assassin’s neck, driving him back and freeing up more room for her to manoeuvre . They were both out of striking range now, but Victoria was glad for it. She stepped away from him as he attempted to close the distance between them and skirted around him, looking for an opening. Spotting it, she angled her blade low and lunged forward. She’d been aiming for his left hip, but, only a split-second before she could connect, he brought his sword down on her dagger, forcing it away from him. The impact was jarring. Her hand throbbed, nearly causing her to drop her dagger. Distracted, she wasn’t fast enough to get out of the way as he moved once more. His sword pierced her shoulder, biting deep. She could hear Hobson’s concerned shout from wherever he was hiding as she bit back a scream. Pain seared through her veins, spreading through her shoulder blade and down her arm.

Her dagger slipped from numb fingers.

She felt a tug at her shoulder as he tried to free his sword. Arms protesting, she reached up and clamped her hands around the blade, holding it in place. Her breath returned to her. With as much calm as she could muster, she demanded, “Why are you doing this?”

He pulled once more at the blade and Victoria winced at the sting of sharp metal against her bare palms. _Hurts…_.

Finally, he snarled, “I’ve waited _years_ in a cell for this moment. It’s time for Albion to truly be free. Will…it doesn’t need the crown or the throne—it doesn’t give you the right to rule the country! You’re not a god! You’re a relic! An’ your monarchy has no place in this land!”

 _What the fuck is he going on about?_ The thought floated blankly about Victoria’s head and she was uncertain whether or not it was purely her own. She…didn’t understand. Certainly, some of her policies had not gone over well with the nobility, but she hadn’t heard any complaints from ordinary citizens about things she had specifically done. Not even in the form of anonymous letters. Even Page seemed somewhat more trusting and content with her as of late. Had she been terribly wrong? Had she convinced herself that everything was going well in an effort to feel better whilst remaining blindly ignorant of true problems? What was she missing?

The Crawler, in contrast, was writhing—raging, struggling to be released. _We are not relics!_ it swore, and Victoria could feel its darkness seeping into her Will; tainting it until the power building beneath her flesh felt almost uncomfortable. _The Darkness was here first! More than gods! We are eternal!_

 _Great, now I have two of them lecturing me_ , Victoria through dryly. To the Crawler, she added, _I would much rather have some help right about now instead of inane babbling!_

The stranger ripped the sword from her shoulder, cutting through her internal argument and slicing into her palms. Her vision swam. She sank to her knees, gritting her teeth against the pain and lamenting the loss of her suit. The blood would probably never wash out.

“I only wish General Turner was here to watch you die.”

Victoria flung her hands up, tapping into her Will and pushing it outward just in time to halt the sword descending towards her face. She couldn’t help the surge of satisfaction that swept over her as her would-be assassin’s expression slowly turned from rage to confusion.

She’d had a theory, many months ago now, that the spells she already knew could be adapted to other uses depending on the intent and energy behind them. For example, by using only a small amount of energy, she could use her fire spell to automatically light candles as she entered a room (or reheat tea that had  gone cold) or use her ice spell to numb a wound. On the other end of the spectrum, she could turn her lightning spell into a thunderstorm with enough energy behind it (it hadn’t worked in full yet; she’d only managed to summon a very small cloud that had followed her around for most of a day and had drenched the carpets with rain—no one had been especially pleased by that development). In theory, the more spells she stuck together, the more results she could get from each attack. And, as wonderful as she was sure it would be the day that she had them all figured out and perfected, she was sure nothing would ever beat the feeling she’d had upon realizing that a low-level force spell maintained indefinitely was a shield.

She kept her eyes trained on the man, trying to think through her options. Time was running short. His confusion was already turning to frustration and fury once more as, again and again, his sword failed to penetrate her shield.

“I truly don’t understand what it is you’re accusing me of,” Victoria told him, working to keep her voice even and civil, “but I can assure you, I haven’t done _anything_.” She pulled at her Will and let her spell loose with as much power as she could summon.

Her shield exploded outwards. The stranger was lifted off his feet and the unhealthy thud that echoed through the room as he hit a pillar across the hall almost made Victoria wince. The almighty **_clang!_** As he dropped onto the suit of armour at the pillar’s base, completely ripping it from its stand, really did result in a wince…and additional pain for her already aching head.

Victoria could hear running footsteps and shouting in the hall, but paid them no heed. About time. She slowly retrieved her dagger and clambered to her feet, watching the now limp body warily.

“Is he…dead?” Hobson choked out and Victoria looked over to find him peeking out from behind her throne. His hair and ascot were dishevelled, but there was almost no other indications that he’d been panicking. Another time, she might have been impressed by the speed of his recovery.

“I doubt it,” she replied. “Most likely unconscious…if we’re lucky.”

She crept forward, blade at the ready. Her heart pounded, annoyingly loud, in her ears. She was dimly aware she was holding her breath, but made no effort to release it. His chest moved steadily. His right leg, however, was clearly broken. His nose, as well. There wasn’t enough blood for her to think his injuries were fatal. _Good._ She knew it didn’t really mean anything—she wasn’t a physician and there could easily be injuries she just couldn’t see—but it gave her a small measure of comfort. Answers would be short coming.

Lowering her guard fractionally, she half-turned toward the throne. “Hobson, go fetch Nanny and—”

A gunshot. The _bang_ made her ears throb. The pain in her side was minimal. _Good, it went straight through._ Hobson was screaming. Funnily enough, it somehow hurt more than being shot. The assassin now had a dagger buried in his clavicle. A gun she’d not previously noticed he’d had slipped from his fingers. And, in the now-open door between the throne room and the hall, Jericho stood horrified; her long braids a mess and her dark skin oddly ashen.

“ _Oh no_ ,” she heard Jericho lament as Victoria crouched down beside the dying man.

“You think you’re safe now?” the man croaked, blood speckling his lips. “I came here alone, but I represent _legions_. You’ll never defeat us all. We _will_ kill you in the end.”

“Perhaps…but you will not live to see it,” Victoria countered, trying to ignore the trepidation that followed his words. Instead, she buried her dagger in his skull.

The room fell into an uneasy silence. Hobson seemed unwilling to crawl out from behind the throne. Head pounding, Victoria stood up once more, already feeling guilty about the blood now soaking into the carpets. _Hobson and Jasper will be pleased_ , she thought absently. _We might_ finally _get new carpets_. It didn’t really make her feel better, though. Perhaps she’d offer her staff a bonus and a formal apology…but, first, she needed to get the room to stop spinning. With almost drunken steps, she made her way back to the short stair at the base of her throne and lowered herself until she was sitting on them—a good distance from what few of her papers were not scattered about the room.

“I apologise,” Jericho murmured, having crept up to her side. “If I had not—”

“There’s no need to apologise, Jer,” Victoria replied, staring at the ruined room in dismay. “I should have anticipated he’d have more weapons than just a sword. I should have been more careful. And…thank you. For trying to keep me safe.”

Jericho didn’t smile, but her expression _did_ momentarily soften. A minute or so passed before she finally said: “I think he was who I was intending to warn you about. One of my informants told me a strange man was looking for weapons and a way into the castle—I knew it was relevant, but it seemed unlikely.”

“I’m surprised Rowan didn’t try to beat you to me.”

“Rowan…might have been the one who informed me.” Jericho looked uneasily away. “I believe she is experiencing some manner of family drama.”

“I know—her elder brother is my psychologist.”

“…pardon, but I cannot imagine how those sessions must go.”

Victoria hummed noncommittally, rubbing absently at the scar stretching from her brow to under the right side of jawline. The action was soothing and familiar but did nothing to help the situation. Hobson and the Crawler had both fallen silent, but that wasn’t helping either. This was a mess. She was going to have to make a statement. There was going to be so much research and investigating to discover who else may want her dead. Inquiries would be made into her staff. New training would need to be scheduled for her guards. And… _oh, Avo, I don’t want to think about it_.

Her heart was beating oddly, fluttering and unsteady. Her head was still pounding and her limbs felt like jelly. When she finally opened her eyes, the room was spinning worse than ever.

She licked her lips, mouth dry, and cleared her throat awkwardly. “Hey, Jericho?”

“Yes?”

“I think I need some help getting to Nanny.” At Jericho’s enquiring stare, Victoria added, “I think he may have poisoned me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well…it’s been a year, and that really is the weirdest cast list I’ve EVER put together, but here we are. For those who don’t know, my usual process of posting is: interest for the story = new chapters, no interest = hiatus. I hope everyone enjoys this…whatever this is. LOL


	2. A Revolutionary Idea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone thought Reaver was on the road to being a good person after MoI...I'm sorry.

A soft moan reached his ears, alerting him with the knowledge that his sleeping partner was now awake a split second before a warm hand splayed across his waist. Once, the sensations both evoked were erotic—causing anticipation to shiver through his thoughts and tendrils of desire to curl into his gut. Now, however, they were evoking nothing more than mild annoyance. He stifled a reaction, feigning a lack of notice, and kept his attention on the documents spread on the sheets before him. Tax forms, business records, ledgers, lists of sales and acquisitions—Reaver was fairly certain his lawyer was meant to have all this in order. It didn’t matter. Ever since she’d become queen, Victoria had been cracking down on a great many things. The most recent: taxes and ensuring everyone paid fairly according to their income. And, while that meant the poor could get by paying a very small amount of gold, it also meant that the wealthy were now paying ridiculously _large_ sums. While that in itself wasn’t a problem, it had raised a very serious one on its own. He now had to be careful about where he was stating he got his money from. And, if a single piece of his less-than-legal earnings showed itself on any of these forms, that would be the end of everything. No amount of bail money would save him from prison and he had no desire to be arrested today, _thank you_.

It was still dark outside—dawn had not yet come to press slivers of light against the heavy velvet curtains—and a chill had crept into the room in absence of a fire. Everything was oddly still and quiet. By the light of a single oil lamp, the large room felt eerie and somehow morose. Shadows collecting on every surface like travellers at a roadside; waiting for something that was probably never coming. And then his companion gave a sleepy sigh and the spell seemed to break.

The hand at his abdomen slowly snaked its way up his torso, bringing unwanted warmth to his cold skin. The bed shifted slightly and, only seconds later, he felt a kiss press against his shoulder blade. His companion’s head dropped to his shoulder and Reaver half-turned to send a probing glance in their direction.

“You’re up an’ working already,” Cillian observed, his brogue slurring slightly as he woke up further. “Everyone’s going to think you’ve gone _boring_ on them.”

 _And_ who _, exactly, is going to be telling the others how I begin my day, hmm? Or is discretion no longer a part of this…arrangement?_ “Then perhaps they should stop leaving me to clean up their messes, shouldn’t they?”

“Here I thought you _enjoyed_ cleaning up my messes.” Cillian kept his words light and almost playful as he slowly crawled out of bed, but it wasn’t enough to keep Reaver from internally bristling with an annoyance that only just faded as he added, “I should probably leave.”

Cillian would make a pretty accessory for someone, of that Reaver was certain. He had the sort of features that solely belonged on a painting or sculpture and green eyes far too vivid in colour to be anything other than eerie. He was a man whose entire skillset consisted of picking the perfect waistcoat to wear to a dinner party and how to sit at just the right angle to accentuate his features—at best, he was an amusing distraction; at worst…insipid and foppish were both adjectives that came readily to mind. And, had Reaver not been using him to steal information about his father’s business, he would have had no use for him. He knew what lied down the path Cillian walked. To some degree, it mirrored his own. However, where Reaver’s path had been calculated and then orchestrated, Cillian’s sprung from only his faults. Reaver knew perfectly well the unsatisfying ending Cillian had awaiting him and there was really no point in lingering to watch Cillian reach it. _Such a pity…and all those_ pretty _words_. At least he was decent in bed; surprisingly… _receptive_ , as well.

“Oh? Weren’t you just accusing _me_ of being boring?” Reaver drawled, feigning affront. He was more than inclined to wish Cillian well and send him on his way, but the game still had to be played and he wasn’t willing to forfeit his edge so easily. Not yet, anyway. “And yet you’re in _such_ a _hurry_ to run back home.”

“No…not a hurry, per se,” Cillian remarked, picking up his scattered attire from wherever they’d been thrown. “I—it’s just that…there’s been a lot of _rumours_ , you understand, that are going about right now.”

 _That_ got Reaver’s attention. He hadn’t heard any big rumours lately that would be enough to put him in such a hurry. Cillian’s tone and lack of desire to look at him was enough to spark his suspicion. It was about him, then. There was no one else it could be about. Which meant he needed answers. Immediately.

“ _What_ rumours?” Though he tried to keep his tone conversational, Reaver couldn’t help the edge that began to creep into his voice. He knew the way to address it was to pretend the rumours were baseless and meaningless—which would help them to end their course all the faster—but he couldn’t help his ire at the sudden sting of betrayal. All he’d done for those ingrates…all the playing buffer between them and the monarchy, all the good words put in, and the not-at-all-legal  deeds preformed on their behalves…and this was how they thanked him? By once again attempting to smear him and his name into the mud? Oh, _yes_ , there needed to be a reckoning…but first he needed to know _who_ , exactly, had started the rumours.

Cillian still wouldn’t look at him as he pulled on his under-things and trousers. Annoyance growing, Reaver set aside his documents, rose, and, in almost an instant, had crossed the room to reach the younger man. Games and playing set aside, Reaver forced Cillian’s chin up, giving him nowhere else to look but at the man before him. With an icy tone the people of Bloodstone were more familiar with than those of Bowerstone, Reaver all but purred, “I believe I asked _what_ rumours you are referring to…my sweet.”

The younger man simply stared a moment, eyes wide with a flicker of anxiety and almost innocent confusion. Clearly this wasn’t working; perhaps, he thought, he needed to try a subtler, more encouraging route of persuasion. The thought had barely crossed his mind when Cillian finally answered quietly: “There are rumours…about yourself and…and Queen Victoria. That you…still have a relationship. That you’re both manipulating us to be pawns for the crown. That you no longer care about the strength of the nobility as a class and that…that…you’re… _breaking_.”

Though the last statement had been delivered as a nervous whisper, Reaver could feel his temper growing in response. It was a miracle, he decided, that his features remained unchanged and perfectly blank. Cillian running away in terror would not help to settle things. Allowing his tone to thaw a bit, he enquired, “And…what do _you_ think?”

“I don’t know what to think,” he admitted. Then, slightly more hopeful, he added, “But none of it’s true…is it?”

The problem was that some of it _was_ , in fact, true. He and Victoria did indeed have a “relationship”—or _had_ one. Until a year ago, it had mainly been physical in nature; sex interspersed with bickering and discussions about the kingdom. And somehow lacking in truly meaningful conversation even when they had both craved it. Now, however, it was non-existent.

_—if he was honest with himself, in the dead hours of the night, he longed for the scent of her hair and the feel of her skin. The way she’d once looked at him when they spoke of personal matters, and the curves of her smile when she was amused, was etched into his memory and he missed it like home after a long journey, even if its absence was his fault to begin with—_

He knew perfectly well that they were both manipulating the nobility, though it had rarely ever been to a shared end. Some might have called that dangerous—playing a game with so many other players—but…well, no one could ever accuse him of shying away from danger. If only he didn’t still need information from these… _people_.

“No,” Reaver lied, if only because this was one of those few times when the truth would not benefit him. He turned his hard grip on Cillian’s chin into a soft caress. “Not a word of it is. Would you like to see proof?”

Cillian was soft and he melted when Reaver kissed him. Only _just_ leaning into his touch, taking it with the gentle care of a first time seduction. So soft…as if Reaver could break him with breath and thought. He vaguely wondered how many people were fooled by that—how many people thought Cillian was delicate and so treated him as though he weren’t a threat. Reaver didn’t trust softness—there was far too ample danger in it. Once, many years previous, he’s had an ex-wife much like Cillian. She’d been so delicate, so frail. To touch her was to fear she’d fall apart in his fingers like wet paper. She’d seemed all the more beautiful for it—like a crystal figure on a mantle. Not six months after they’d married, she’d tried to kill him in an attempt to voice her _displeasure_ at his continued vocation.  They had divorced quite soon after that. And, while he  didn’t think Cillian would try to kill him, he didn’t believe the youth was as innocent as he played, either. After all, poisoned chocolate lost none of its pleasure.

But, at that moment, his kisses were timid and indulgent. Feather-light brushes of flesh against flesh. Deliberately teasing, taunting, postponing that moment where it would turn to something more.

 _Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock_.

The last of the noise at the door died down as Reaver pulled back to frown at the door. As curious as he was, this was terrible timing.

“Ignore it,” Cillian sighed, his voice no longer nervous, but needy and almost demanding.

Deciding he would look into it later, Reaver obliged him. Trailed kisses up his neck with affected slowness. Cillian’s nails scraped against his scalp, demanding him to come even closer.

 _Knock. **Knock**. Click_.

“My Lord, th— _oh, by the Light!_ ”

Internally sighing, Reaver pulled away from Cillian to face the maid that had just walked in. Ella had been in his service almost a decade now—her parents had sold her into the service at the age of eight and he’d managed to procure her from another noble (a man with far more…peculiar and distasteful interests than Reaver’s own extended to) before any irreparable damage could be done—and it still amused him that, though she walked in on him nude on almost a daily basis, she still flushed and immediately looked away. Revulsion, she had always claimed, not modesty. Given she looked at everyone in her presence in those situations in the exact same way, he was inclined to believe her.

“ _What_ is it, Ella?” he drawled, feigning far more exasperation than he actually felt.

She kept her eyes trained on her feet, a hand at her brow as though she were trying to avoid accidentally looking up at him. Even with the distance between them, he could see her face was bright red. “I…erm, there’s something important you need to see, Sir.”

“Then _where_ is it?” he returned. He didn’t even try to keep from rolling his eyes. If this was more tax rubbish….

“It’s not…exactly _here_ , Sir.”

“And still you saw fit to interrupt my business.” He watched as the flush drained from her face, leaving her cheeks splotchy and several shades paler than usual. And, though Reaver knew perfectly well that it would be counterproductive to beat her over the disruption (she was far too loyal to deserve it and far too good at her job, unlike the very rare few whom had actually crossed him in the past), the insinuation had the pleasant side effect of making Cillian gather up his clothes that much faster.

An unpleasant silence filled the room as Cillian grabbed his jacket and, only glancing back once, slipped out of the room. The door closed behind him and the tension went with him, leaving the room comfortable, if rather poorly illuminated.

“Was that completely necessary, My Lord?” Ella enquired, finally lowering her hand as Reaver shrugged on a dressing gown. “I only interrupt in an emergency.”

“Ella,” he cut in, trying to keep her from running off on a tangent, “what did you find?”

“There…was an attack, Sir,” she began uncertainly. “At the castle, I mean. Someone tried to kill the queen.”

And the world came to a halt around him.

~ * ~

Victoria lay in her cot, staring up at the carvings of ivy and flowers along the edges of the infirmary ceiling. She’d spent the night there, under “observation”…which didn’t quite make sense to her, for everyone else had retired to bed by midnight. Nanny had given her enough potions for sleep and healing that Victoria was certain she’d be injury resistant for the next four years, disregarding the fact that potions didn’t work that way. Jericho had lingered nearby, sleeping on the next cot over after retrieving some of Victoria’s research and some books from the library along with her dog, Nero, from where he’d been begging scraps and attention from the kitchens. Though Nero was still asleep—snoring little doggie snores—Victoria was fairly certain that Jericho was awake, but in no hurry to have a conversation. Given the infirmary was empty but for them and a single occupant at the far end of the room, Victoria was completely fine with allowing the silence to remain.

It was the first time in two years that her thoughts were as silent as her surroundings.

Dusty morning sunlight streamed in from the large, arched windows, illuminating the old tapestries and pastel landscapes that hung at intervals around the room. Victoria could smell sea salt and damp earth through the single open window; birdsong trickled in with it, carried on a cold breeze. The last of the snow had finally melted only a week or so previously and Victoria was looking forward to the dead plants slowly returning to life. The castle seemed sombre without them.

An hour or so passed before a maid finally brought up a breakfast tray for them. They ate in silence. A lot of being in Jericho’s company was sitting in silence. Words were extremely important to her and socialization was painfully uncomfortable, as consequence Jericho didn’t often speak. Though Victoria wanted to ask her more about herself, Victoria also respected her and was willing to try…if only for Jericho’s sake.

They slowly finished eating—Nero having eaten more than his fair share of black pudding. Jericho returned to her books, relaxing against her cot’s headboard as though she weren’t trying to make sure no one tried to sneak in and finish the assassin’s job. Victoria simply sat there, alternating between stretching her stiff muscles and petting Nero. She wondered if it was fine for her to leave or if Nanny would hunt her down for doing so. Granted, if Nanny had it her way, Victoria probably would spend more than half of her life stuck in the infirmary, so it was most likely for the best if she crept out before Nanny came to check on them.

Rolling her shoulders and neck, Victoria felt her spine crackle pleasantly but froze as Nero gave a low growl. The growls became soft woofs as Victoria turned towards the infirmary’s door. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Jericho slowly set aside her book. Hurried footsteps purposefully heading towards the infirmary –more than one set, Victoria thoughts—and raised, muffled voices. Victoria rubbed Nero’s neck in an effort to calm him as she and Jericho exchanged dubious glances.

The voices abruptly quieted just before the door swung open, revealing a concerned Walter and a harried Reaver. For once, they didn’t look like they wanted to kill each other. Victoria found that oddly more concerning than the previous night’s assassin.

“Walter!  …and…Reaver,” she began, faltering on his name as though uncertain she wanted to say it. “Not that this isn’t…erm… _thrilling_ , but what are you both doing here? Walter were you not observing troop movements? And…I have neither an idea nor a care for what or whom you were doing, Reaver, but I highly doubt coming all the way to Bowerstone was worth it.”

“I suspect we both have _entirely_ different ideas of what is worth our time—”

“We heard about your near accident,” Walter calmly stated, neatly cutting off Reaver before he could begin ranting. “And your attacker.”

“We? As in _both_ of…?”

“Your shoddy security measures aside, this is an issue that simply _must_ be addressed!” Reaver chided, firmly rapping his walking stick twice against the tiled floor.

“You’re not _seriously_ blaming me for someone’s breaking into _my_ home and attempting to _kill_ me?!” Victoria shot back. She was well aware she was a little too eager to start a fight, but…so was he. And this was how they’d always been, right? Residual anger couldn’t be affecting her in _any_ way, right? _Everything is fine. Right…_ fine.

“Before this progresses, we need to focus on what is _actually_ important right now,” Walter intoned, stopping them both in their tracks. Even with his enormous goatee in the way, it was obvious he was frowning. “Are you alright?”

“I am, Walter. I’m…I’m more angry than anything, really.”

“What happened?”

“…Hobson and I were arguing about—” she hesitated, unwilling to go into detail with Reaver and Jericho listening in and tried to detour around the unhelpful truths— “stupid tax stuff,” Victoria finally said. Staring down at the stark white sheets, she carefully relayed the events of the previous night. With equal care, she left out the Crawler’s whispers in the back of her mind. None of them needed to know about that; perhaps, one day, she would be comfortable enough with the idea of letting them in on her secret. But it was not currently an option. She also elected to leave out Jericho’s involvement in the assassin’s death, aware that it almost sounded as though the assassin had almost magically attracted a dagger to his neck. As far as she was concerned, Jericho was more than capable of bringing it up if she felt the need. Otherwise, there was no point in inviting Reaver’s commentary on the subject. Not that it mattered; Reaver commented on anything he liked, regardless of its subject.

By the time she’d finished speaking, an uneasy silence had filled the room. For once, Victoria was certain she knew why. They’d had creatures come to attack the crown before, but this was the first time a human enemy had attacked them since Victoria had taken the throne from her brother. No one had ever made such an obvious grab for control before. And every single one of them was invested—either personally or financially—in the success of the current regime. If someone was making a bid for power, that could only mean one thing: war.

The thought alone made her blood turn to ice. She didn’t want to think about having to put the country through that so soon after the ordeal with…her brother.

After a beat, Walter proposed: “If we’re looking for an assassin, we should contact the Conclave; they may be able to tell us who this man was.”

“I don’t think it was the Conclave ,” Victoria confessed. “I don’t think they had anything to do with it. The Conclave aren’t the sort to have one of their people just…walk up to me. If the Conclave wanted me dead, they would have been much cleverer and I doubt I’d be speaking with you now.”

“I concur. It’s so very unfortunate there’s not more information on exactly _who_ was responsible for this… _gruesome_ attempt on your life.” If Reaver had been any more sarcastic, Victoria might have contemplated chucking a pillow at him. But _what_ , she wondered, was the sarcastic part? Their lack of information or that someone had attacked her? As far as she was concerned, where he was directing his humour _probably_ meant something important.

She almost wondered if Reaver was to blame for the assassin, except…it lacked his sense of style and drama. If he was going to kill her, she had no doubt that _he_ would be the one to do it, not some hired hand. And it would have been far better planned out. Most likely, it would have lacked witnesses, as well. He would have made an art of it—messy, horrifically painful, excessively drawn out art. It would not be a peaceful passing. As such, this mess couldn’t have anything to do with him…could it?

“He didn’t…have anything to say about who hired him, did he?” Walter added, sounding fractionally more intrigued than concerned as his words sliced through her inner monologue.

Victoria paused, trying to search her memory. “I-I don’t… _wait_. Now that I think on it, he _might_ have. He mentioned some… _General Turner_. Does that name mean anything to you?”

“Oh, Avo,” Walter murmured, dropping down into the chair nearest Victoria’s cot. He looked as if he’d suddenly aged a decade as he and Reaver exchanged knowing, almost foreboding, looks. Her concern began to build once more. It was concerning enough the few times that he and Reaver both agreed on something, but for them to both act as though they were in on the same secret? That was _bad_.

“What is it?”

“If Solomon Turner is involved, this goes far beyond anything I could have anticipated,” Walter admitted.

“I…am afraid I must, once more, concur,” Reaver said soberly, mood shifting faster than Victoria could keep up with. Though it wasn’t as if she were making much of an effort to try.

“Why?” Victoria enquired, impatience leaking into her voice. The name sounded oddly familiar, like something she’d heard as a child and had forgotten about. “Who is Solomon Turner?”

“He _was_ a good man…at one time,” Walter began. "He enlisted in the army around the same time Swift and myself did. He helped see your father to the throne! We served together for thirty-five years and he was immensely well respected—”

“And then he launched a _coup_ against Logan,” Reaver interrupted. Something in his tone reminded Victoria of a gossiping old woman at tea and it almost made the news sound less grave.

“I had never heard of such a thing,” Jericho intoned, once more reminding the room of her presence.

“Neither did I,” Victoria agreed. She found it very strange. Prior to their revolution, she had rarely left the castle. Surely the servants would have been whispering about it near her at some point or another. And yet…she had no memory of it. “What happened?”

Walter rubbed at his temples, clearly trying to rid himself of some stress. “Everything went to hell. It was shortly after Logan returned from Aurora; you were…indisposed.”

If by indisposed he meant “you were lying in a hospital bed, recovering from running away from home and nearly losing your face to a balverine”, then that explained quite a bit. Still, it was strange to her that something so important had missed her entirely. Then again, Logan had clearly taken greater pains to hide things from her at that time.

“Logan was different when he returned,” Walter continued. “We all saw it, and, of course, not one of us knew _why_. Swift and I were willing to give him the benefit of the doubt—blame it on the stress of being a newly appointed king and the hardship of having a mission fail for the first time. Solomon, however, had different ideas. He became convinced that Logan, and the monarchy by extension, was evil. And that the monarchy needed to be destroyed. Swift and I didn’t want to help him—we didn’t know just how bad everything would become. We saw a scared, overly-ambitious child…and Solomon saw a throne that needed to be empty so the people could create their own government.”

“Only it didn’t quite work out as planned,” Reaver cut in. “I’d heard of it second hand, but wasn’t he ousted by his own soldiers?”

“I don’t know _who_ told Logan,” Walter replied. “All I know is that the coup was destroyed in a single night. Dozens of men were lost; Solomon was arrested and sent away.”

“Sent where?” Victoria asked.

The look Reaver gave her was almost chiding. “Where else do you send a traitor? Ravenscar Keep, of course.”

Victoria and Jericho exchanged confused frowns. “What’s Ravenscar Keep?”

It was Reaver’s turn to look confused. “You don’t…?” He paused, turning to frown accusatorily at Walter. “In all this time, you didn’t _tell_ her?”

“What didn’t you tell me?” It sounded distantly familiar to her, but, as with General Turner, she couldn’t recall where she’d heard it. Something to do with Logan….

Walter roughly dragged a hand through his short, grey hair with a heavy sigh. “I didn’t want it to become a crutch like it did for Logan. You’ve seen her give judgments—she does perfectly well without the Keep holding her back!”

“Oh, _yes_ , and we can see how perfectly well _that_ —”

“What aren’t you telling me?!” Victoria half-shouted, trying desperately to get them to stop bickering and to start answering her.

“Your father took it over,” Walter finally said. “Ravenscar Keep is on an island to the south. When Sparrow came across it, he decided it would be a perfect deterrent. A place to keep the worst criminals away from society. For a time it even worked. Would anyone _really_ want to risk being sent there?”

“So what went wrong?” Victoria enquired.

“Logan returned from Aurora…and everything changed. He had changed. Suddenly, everyone who showed the smallest hint of threat was sent to the Keep. Dozens, if not a couple hundred, of prisoners over the years,” Walter elaborated. “There’s a lot of unjustly imprisoned people there. I didn’t want you to fall into the same trap. It’s too easy to rely on a simple fix.”

Victoria remained silent, thinking it over. She’d not imagined something like this existed. Disappointment that Walter hadn’t seen fit to entrust this information to her sooner put aside for the moment, she was at a loss for words. What was she supposed to say? She certainly wasn’t alright with it. However, she couldn’t say she completely objected to the idea, either. She was well aware there were people that were too dangerous to keep in a simple prison; such an isolated location…surely it was better to place them there than near others? At the same time, how could they hope to rehabilitate them from so far away? “Why not try to appeal his verdicts? Try to get the people that don’t deserve to be there out?”

“The documents were nowhere to be found,” Walter scratched at the back of his head, frowning. “I checked everywhere in the castle, but they’re not here.”

“Not that it matters now,” Reaver interjected. “ _Clearly_ the only thing to do is speak with Turner. See if he’s _really_ involved or if your attacker was merely pointing fingers.”

“Whether or not Mr. Turner is involved, I doubt he will be willing to speak to Victoria. He has no incentive to consider it,” Jericho observed, her voice almost soothing.

She was right, Victoria knew. There was nothing they had to offer him to insure he’d be truthful. She knew she couldn’t offer him a pardon. There was no guarantee that he’d abandoned his desire to destroy the monarchy and she wasn’t cruel enough to lie about the possibility of freedom.

“Then offer him a harsher sentence for refusing,” Reaver drawled, waving his hand dismissively.

“That would do the opposite,” Walter shot back. “Solomon is an experienced soldier; he knows what to do when he’s interrogated by an enemy—which is very nearly what you’re suggesting,” he added to Reaver with a disapproving glance.

“I was _not_ suggesting it,” Reaver interrupted. “I was _stating_ that it’s the best and most logical course of action…especially when _Her Majesty’s life_ is being threatened.”

“I think we all know perfectly well what your history of ‘logical’ and ‘well thought out’ courses of action is,” Walter snapped, rising from his seat. He wasn’t even close to Reaver’s height, but he made up for it through sheer strength of presence.

“ _My_ history?” Reaver began almost delicately, taking a half step closer. His lips curled derisively and his posture possessed none of its usual grace—brawlers and bar fights came immediately to Victoria’s mind. “Why don’t we talk about _your_ history…and how the last major decision you made nearly resulted in Victoria’s death?” Dropping his voice in pseudo-sympathy, he went on: “It must bother you _so much_ to know you swore to protect her, and yet she was far safer with me than she _ever_ was with you.”

Walter’s hand twitched as though he were repressing the urge to deck him. Instead, he lowered his voice and replied, “I might take what you have to say more seriously if you weren’t the same man who gave up his shot at the crown because you didn’t find the engagement _fun_ any longer. You lost your chance to order me around. Tell me, how often does _that_ sting, Reaver?”

Reaver had gone paler than usual, jaw tense. His throat worked a moment before, almost inaudibly, he said, “Every day. It stings _every day_.”

“As it should.”

“This isn’t helping!” Victoria snapped, trying to ignore the discomfort in her stomach. She didn’t want to see them fight. And, while she understood why she was concerned for Walter—she’d long since come to terms with him being as close to a father as she currently had—she didn’t understand why she felt so protective of Reaver. He was powerful, he was capable, and she was utterly furious with him behind the politeness and focus on the matters at hand. He didn’t _need_ protecting and she should have no desire to offer it. So why couldn’t she let it go?

“What isn’t helping,” Reaver asserted, making no effort to calm down, “is that we’re _standing here_ , listening to crack-pot theories dissecting hearsay _history lessons_ when we know exactly who has answers and we could already be off to see him.”

“Reaver, if you’re going to keep antagonizing Walter, I will have you escorted off the castle’s grounds. By your hair, if my guards must,” Victoria cautioned, letting the challenge linger in the air between them. She could feel Jericho staring at her, but didn’t move to return it. Someone needed to keep Reaver in line. Just because she didn’t want to see him hurt didn’t meant she was going to let him play the bully.

He stared at her a long moment, body tense, as though he were debating whether or not to keep arguing with her. All at once, he relaxed and stepped back to lean against the far wall. Once settled, he waved a dismissive hand in Victoria’s direction, as though telling her to commence with whatever she had in mind.

She resisted the urge to sigh at him, not willing to egg him on, before turning back to Walter. “Unfortunately, there is some urgency to finding out whether or not this was a planned attack or just a coincidence. Do you think you could find any of the files on Turner’s arrest?”

“I might,” Walter conceded with a slight frown. “But there’s as good a chance those files are wherever the missing ones are.”

“If you can’t find them where the majority of the archives are, then don’t bother,” Victoria instructed. “As much as I’d like to research before making a move, there’s no point to us wasting time when I can go to the Keep myself.”

“I will assist him. That will be the quickest way to find them, it they are there,” Jericho murmured. Though her voice was soft, her eyes were not. Calculating, observing, piecing things together that they didn’t say through their body language alone.

“Thank you,” Victoria responded as Walter did the same. She turned to Reaver, hoping she wouldn’t come to regret this as she began, “Reaver, can you—”

“E-excuse me, Ma’am?” a nervous voice interrupted. A small, thin soldier stood in the doorway as though unsure of himself. As four sets of eyes turned to him, he seemed to hunch in on himself as though he wanted to be anywhere but there.

“Yes?” Victoria replied, patience beginning to wane once more.

“Y-you’re wanted at the—at the Industrial docks, Your Majesty,” the soldier stammered, his ears going red.

Reaver scoffed. “We’re in the middle of—”

“Did something happen?” Vitoria interrupted, pushing her blankets off her legs. Her nightgown had bunched up around her thighs and she found herself wishing for warmer clothes.

“I…I don’t know, Ma’am,” he replied. “I was told something ‘bout a strange ship and Captain Finn says it’s urgent you meet him. Armed, he said. Immediately, he said!”

Victoria slowly got to her feet, trying not to look at anyone but the soldier as she thanked him and sent him back to his post. Her thoughts were racing. Not for the first time this morning, she wondered if the assassin had only been the beginning of something far, far worse.


	3. The Keep

It took far longer than she cared to admit for Victoria to dress and begin the descent to the docks. Jericho had wanted to come along, but had failed to bring any additional clothing with her the previous night. (Though Victoria wasn’t completely uncertain that Jericho wouldn’t follow along behind them, using the rooftops and back alleys for cover.) Reaver had also stated his desire to join her, though he had neglected to give any reasoning beyond that it was in his best interests to keep an eye on any events that might impact his business within Industrial. She was fairly certain that was utter bollocks, but she wasn’t about to call him on it. She didn’t have the energy. She easily would have preferred Walter as a companion, but it was safer to leave the castle in his hands than unoccupied. At the very least, if there was a threat, she could count on Reaver to shoot it before it had a chance to do the same to him.

The carriage rattled along and they both took great pains not to look at each other. Instead, they both endeavoured to stare out the windows, pretending everything was fine and this was completely normal. Victoria watched as Bowerstone rattled by—crooked old houses silhouetted against a sky like a bone porcelain bowl. Conversation was stilted and clipped to the point of near nonexistence. All the progress they had made during their engagement had been reversed a year ago, leaving them with long, awkward silences and a lingering sense of the other not wanting to be there. In Victoria’s opinion, it made the air between them feel just short of hostile. She didn’t want to talk to him, didn’t want to _see_ him, but was inclined to tolerate him if it meant he would be leaving soon.

“I should have my forms to you within the next two weeks…along with a new proposal,” Reaver informed her almost contemplatively.

“There’s no rush,” Victoria replied, sparing a brief glance in his general direction. She wondered if he shared her sentiments of feigning tolerance, but couldn’t be certain. He still wasn’t looking at her, and what she could see of his expression was unreadable. “There’s still three months to go.”

He answered with a soft, noncommittal hum and they both fell silent once more.

Victoria observed as the Market’s tidy houses and shops fell away to be replaced by towering factories and run-down terraced houses. Her stomach clenched uncomfortably. No matter how much effort she put into rebuilding Industrial, it never seemed to get any better. Reaver never gave any indication he cared. He _would_ , though, when her new bill was put into effect this summer. Mandatory safety procedures, raised minimum wages, and age restrictions to keep children out of work environments. They were all things she’d worked on fixing before, but no one had really taken it seriously. She was hoping that, with harsher penalties and the threat of jail time in place, they would start. Irregardless, when she revealed the bill, she was going to have a lot of angry businessmen on her hands. She welcomed the challenge.

The docks spread out before them, laden with crates and barrels but empty of workers despite it barely being midday. Instead, soldiers paced their length, standing out against the dreary background of Industrial like splotches of scarlet paint. Victoria eyed them carefully until she spotted a familiar figure standing near the road’s edge.

She cracked the door open and, peeking out, called up to the driver: “Pull up alongside Captain Finn, if you please.”

“Yes, Ma’am!” was the reply and the carriage immediately began to slow.

They rolled to a halt and Reaver had both opened the door and slid gracefully out of the carriage before Victoria could even contemplate movement. _Typical_ , she thought with a frown. But she reluctantly accepted his offered hand and allowed him to help her down without any external fuss. There was a strong breeze today, rustling the tails of her military-styled crimson coat. The scent of brine and waste hit her olfactory sense like a punch and she worked to keep her expression from shifting into one of disgust. Her stomach churned in imitation of the filthy, brackish waves lapping at the piers’ struts and Victoria suddenly wished the waste treatment facility was already completed.

“Oh, look,” Ben remarked as they drew close, “one of my favourite people and one of my least favourite people all in the same carriage. Must be my lucky day.”

“Must be,” Victoria retorted, teasing; ignoring the rules of decorum that said public displays of affection were improper, Victoria drew him into a hug. Something about Ben always seemed comforting—whether it was his persistent humour or the kindness of his actions, she didn’t know. But she always looked forward to seeing him. Reluctantly pulling away, she enquired, “What’s going on?”

“Honest-like? I don’t really know,” Ben admitted. “Decided to drop in for supplies—pay Walter, you, and Page a visit while I’m here. I was—uh, I was actually on my way to see Page when I saw Sergeant there—” he nodded toward a soldier— “directing people off the docks. Luckily, some of the lads recognized me and filled me in. Told ‘em they oughtta’ve contacted you sooner.” He held up a pair of battered binoculars to her. “I’m, uh, a bit perplexed here.”

Victoria accepted the binoculars and peered through them. A massive steam-powered ship met her gaze—enormous crank slowly rotating as soft plumes of smoke drifted lazily from its funnel. Something seemed off about the number of sails, but she couldn’t say _what_.

“It’s…very modern,” she observed with a frown. What was there really to say? She didn’t know ships from Skorm. How was she supposed to help? “Modern, but unremarkable.”

“It was coming in full speed,” Ben added, nodding in agreement. He went to take the binoculars from her, but Reaver snatched them up before Ben could lay a finger on them. Shooting the taller man a disapproving look, he went on: “An’ it wasn’t responding to anything the lads in the dinghies called to it. I’d almost think it was abandoned if it hadn’t started slowing just before you got here…it’s not flying any colours, either.”

“That raises some questions, to be honest.”

“Well, well, a steam engine and full rigging,” Reaver remarked, more to himself than them.

Victoria suddenly realised just why the sails had looked odd to her. Recently, they’d started incorporating steam engines into more ships and, in turn, had been reducing the number of sails required per ship. The goal, she’d been told, was to eventually have ships that were powerful enough to transport goods and passengers a long distance without the need for sails at all. _This ship_ reminded her of a very old concept for the current models, though she’d never seen it put into practice before.

Ben was talking again, however, and his voice drew her out of her introspection. “That’s what one of the chaps over there said. Someone _really_ wanted to make sure that ship got where it was needed.” Ben paused and, almost as an afterthought, added, “Suppose that means we don’t need to worry about pirates. I can’t imagine one spending so much on fuel.”

Victoria snuck an accusatory glance at Reaver. Funnily enough, she _could_ imagine a pirate that would. If she didn’t know what Arachne, his current vessel, looked like she might have even considered him to be the reason behind this mystery ship. As it was, it didn’t seem likely.

“We don’t need to guess where it came from, either,” Reaver replied, roughly returning Ben’s binoculars. “My company built it.”

“Wait, _what_?” Ben received no answer as Reaver stalked off to speak with the Sergeant. He turned to Victoria. “Does he seem like more of a prick than usual or is it just me? And why in Avo’s name is everyone panicking over a bloody ship?”

Victoria remained quiet for a moment, lost in thought. She watched the ship’s approach, not sure what to command her men to do, before finally divulging: “Someone tried to kill me last night.”

Ben stared at her as if she’d suddenly grown a second head—concern and horror warring for control over his features, squashing down the glint of anger she’d momentarily seen in his blue eyes. “I—how—are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” she insisted. “He snuck in while Hobson and I were sorting out the budget. I didn’t find out anything useful before he died…damned shame.”

Ben swore, raking a hand through his blond hair. His hand came to a rest at the back of his neck and he heaved a heavy sigh.  “You think the two might be connected?”

“I think we’re about to find out.”

The ship was close enough to make out the detailing on its weathered wood. Victoria gestured for her men to get into position and wait for her command. If this was a preface to an attack, she wanted to be prepared. However, she did not draw her own weapons…just in case it _wasn’t_ an attack. (She didn’t want to accidentally offend anyone—insinuating you wanted someone dead was bad for diplomacy, after all.) With slow, measured steps, she made her way half down the pier and stopped, hands folded behind her back. As Ben joined her side—his beloved rifle, Vanessa, cradled in his hands—the thought occurred to her that she had adopted Logan’s favoured “I’m trying to maintain control without looking threatening” position. Victoria immediately forced the thought from her mind. Now wasn’t the time.

She was dimly aware that Reaver and the Sergeant had followed them, coming to a halt much further back.

By the time the ship had docked, tension had somehow mounted. She could feel it in her muscles—a tingling like hundreds of ants underneath her skin. She hadn’t been so twitchy in ages and, much to her chagrin, when  a gangplank finally thudded down onto the dock, she jumped.

A sextet of soldiers tramped down the plank, almost immediately parting to form a path before springing to attention. Whispers followed them. Victoria’s throat suddenly felt very, very dry. She’d seen such uniforms before; they were almost identical to the uniforms Logan’s elite had worn. The colour was all wrong, though. Where Logan’s guard had been striking in violet and silver, these men looked brooding and grim in black and bronze. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Ben shoot her a questioning glance. In reply, she marginally shook her head before stepping forward.

As though in response, a figure appeared at the top of the plank. Almost immediately he drew his sabre and dropped to one knee, holding the blade aloft as though offering it to the now speechless queen. Sunlight glinted off the sword’s hilt in a blinding sheen. The dock had fallen silent once more, only for it to be shattered as the figure called out, “We are at your service, Your Majesty.”

“I wasn’t expecting that,” Ben muttered, staring at the ship in ill-disguised confusion.

Neither was Victoria. It didn’t sit well with her. She eyed the men warily and turned to look at her own soldiers—every single one of them looked uncomfortable and fidgety. Just as confused as Ben had sounded. Reaver caught her eye, his expression still unreadable. She glanced down to where his hand rested atop his Dragonstomper and then back up. Something in his eyes bothered her, but she couldn’t put her finger on what. Deciding that pondering over Reaver’s moods would have to wait until she could attempt to think clearly, she tore her gaze away from him and commanded of her men:  “Stand down. Clearly what we have here is a misunderstanding; there’s no need for violence or bloodshed today.”

The words tasted like a lie, even though they felt and sounded true. Victoria turned back to the ship as the figure rose and sheathed his sword. He began to make his way down to her and she decided that, if this was a trap, there was nothing she could do but play along until it was sprung. If it wasn’t…she would have to worry about that later.

Uncertain about what else she could do when he finally reached her, she offered to let him stay in the castle. In hindsight, it was a mistake.

~ * ~

The stranger introduced himself as Commander Milton, the warden of Ravenscar Keep. His mission, he’d said, was of the utmost importance…though he’d refused to speak of it where prying ears might be listening. Victoria had barely managed to keep from either frowning or rolling her eyes at the proclamation; she’d heard that before and most of the men who had used it were all talk and trousers—rarely bearing enough important information to be concerning. That said, it was a rather uneventful ride back to the castle. Victoria and Reaver sat on one of the carriage’s benches while Milton sat on the opposite side and stared out the window. In a way, she didn’t blame them—he and Reaver had barely made it through introductions, neither entirely thrilled by the other. (Victoria supposed rumours of Reaver’s doings must have made their way to the Keep; as for Reaver…she had no idea what about Milton had put a bee in his bonnet, but she wasn’t surprised, either.) Ben had rejected Victoria’s offer to join them.

_“Are you certain?” Victoria had enquired, a concerned frown tugging at her lips._

_“Yeah…yeah, it’s fine,” Ben nodded, waving her off. He tried for a nonchalant posture, but he couldn’t hide the anxious twitch to his movements. “This Milton bloke…he’s dodgy, but I doubt he could do any damage. And I need to be going soon."_

_“But you’ve only just come back.”_

_“I know, I—” he raised a hand to scratch at a spot on his hairline, searching for words, before dropping it with a heavy sigh— “I found some new information on William.”_

_Whatever reason Victoria had assumed for Ben’s haste,_ that _had not been it. Excitement and worry battled in her gut. Ben had relayed his unfortunate family history to her one night a little less than a year ago. His eldest brother’s death, his second eldest brother’s arrest and subsequent disappearance, his failed attempt at saving his third brother’s life, which had preluded the deaths of his parents. It had been...an awkward conversation. One neither of them had particularly enjoyed. But the mystery of whether or not William Finn was still alive after his incarceration had always intrigued her. She’d been aware Ben was keeping an ear out for news, but she hadn’t_ actually _expected him to find anything.  If only William didn’t have one of the most common names in all of Albion._

_“That’s wonderful, Ben!”_

_He made a helpless gesture as though attempting to discourage her enthusiasm. “Just hearsay and rumours.” At her expectant expression, he added: “I heard from a mercenary I used to know when I lived in Bloodstone and they pointed me towards someone named Taggert. Arsehole;_ slaver— _specializing in the_ ‘retrieval of runaways’ _or something like that. Apparently Taggert used to have a run of bad luck where a particular slave was concerned.”_

“William,” _Victoria murmured, the revelation leaving a foul taste in her mouth._

_“Maybe. The description fits, at least. ‘Course now I can’t get a single person to tell me where Taggert is.”_

_“There has to be some information on Taggert out there! Give me a couple days to sort out Milton and I’ll put some people on it. I can…I dunno, drag Rowan away from trying to murder Pierce. And—and Jer might know something. If there’s a connection to Bloodstone, I could—”_

_A chuckle drew Victoria’s attention out of her thoughts. Ben stared back with an almost familial softness and a crooked grin. “I appreciate it, Vic…I really do. But I’ve got to do this myself. And I think, after that assassin, maybe Bowerstone needs you more right now.”_

There was an air of great relief that settled over the trio as the finally drew near Bowerstone Castle. Or, at the very least, Victoria and Milton stood slightly less tense upon exiting the carriage. Reaver had taken to looking haughty and bored—as though he were sitting for a portrait that was taking far too long. In contrast, Victoria had taken to ignoring him. She had a feeling Reaver was in _a mood_ and that it would make a very poor impression if they began bickering in front of Milton.

Milton, however, seemed content to simply stare up at the castle. His expression was inscrutable, but there was something fascinated about the sudden slowness of his movements.

“Is this your first visit to Bowerstone Castle, Commander?”

He started at her words, whirling to face her. She saw a faint flush spreading behind his thick, greying moustache and failed to hide an apologetic smile. Milton cleared his throat, embarrassed, before replying: “Not my first, Ma’am. Though it has been a long while, Your Majesty.”

“Why ever am I not surprised?” Reaver muttered dryly. Victoria shot him a warning glance, though Milton didn’t appear to have heard him.

With an odd sense of looming dread, Victoria led the way into the castle.

Walter and Jericho were waiting in the foyer, apparently deep in conversation. Walter’s brow had furrowed into a deep frown and Jericho’s lips were pursed with distaste. Heads bowed toward each other, they spoke conspiratorially in hushed, but quick, tones that made the words impossible to understand from the other side of the hall. Nevertheless, they both fell silent as the trio neared.

“Commander, I’m not certain if you’ve met—this is Sir Walter Beck, my steward and advisor. Walter, this is Commander Milton, he…is the warden of Ravenscar Keep.”

Walter stepped forward, somehow projecting warmth and welcome, even though he couldn’t have possibly been less suspicious than he had been before Victoria and Reaver had left. Shaking the younger man’s hand, he greeted, “A pleasure, Commander. …ah, pardon the intrusion, but…Marine or…?”

“Oh, no, Sir. Navy,” Milton replied. At Walter’s exclamation of understanding, he added, “I’ve heard great things about you, Sir Walter. It’s an honour to meet you at last.”

“And this is…a friend of mine, Serafina Dubois,” Victoria cut in, gesturing towards Jericho. The dark-skinned girl had changed out of her work clothes and into a simple gown. Somehow, she looked harmless and meek, like a shopkeeper’s daughter and not the skilled detective she was. _Good_ , Victoria thought. Jericho didn’t want her secret getting out any more than Victoria wanted people to know of her… _possession issues_.

“Good day to you, miss,” Milton greeted with a polite, if slightly formal, bow. Jericho’s only response was a delicate inclination of her head.

They made awkward small talk for a few moments, but it wasn’t until Walter reminded them about lunch that the conversation finally grew serious.

Victoria was fairly certain the cook had outdone himself this time as they took their seats—not in the grand dining room, which was usually reserved for formal meals, but in the small parlour she usually took tea with guests in. A magnificent smoked ham occupied the centre of the table along with a thick “old pea” soup. A pie of winter vegetables sat on the opposite end of the table from an herb pie, though they were nearly indistinguishable from each other. Staunchly aware of how hungry she was, Victoria made an effort to not immediately stuff her face with custard tart; it was an effort she was apparently alone in for, as soon as they sat down, Reaver set about filling his glass with syllabub and didn’t appear to be the least bit repentant.

“I hate to press you, Commander,” Victoria said as they settled in, “but I really must know: why did you come here?”

The table seemed to fall even quieter than it already had been. Walter paused, a spoonful of soup halfway to his mouth, and both Jericho and Reaver appeared to be listening intently—though only Jericho bothered to look otherwise focused on her plate.

Milton stayed quiet for a moment, frowning at his ham, before he finally spoke. “It pains me to admit this, Your Majesty, but we’ve had a bit of trouble. One of our prisoners escaped—a multiple murderer and general miscreant. Some of the other prisoners heard him making complaints and threats against the crown. We thought we should warn you, but you appear to be safe. Maybe we were wrong to assume he might come after you.”

Victoria smiled, struggling to keep it friendly. “You’re in luck, Commander, we may have your prisoner: he’s in the city morgue, if you’d like to identify him. Though your concern is welcome, as you can see, no one was harmed.”

“I’m pleased to hear it, Your Majesty. I would be happy to identify the body.”

Buttering a roll, Victoria exchanged a glance with Walter. She was pleased  to see he seemed to share her scepticism, his bushy brows furrowed questioningly. Across the table, Reaver met her gaze with an indecipherable look and a smirk that suggested he thought everyone at the table was a fool. _If you have a suggestion, I’d love to hear it_ , she thought dryly, not in the mood to deal with him. Nothing about this situation was anywhere near ideal. The assassin had at least been up front about his intentions, but Milton? She wasn’t sure where his loyalties lied and the timing of his appearance was a little too perfect. She wasn’t comfortable with this.

“Commander,” Walter began, drawing attention away from Victoria, “in your opinion, what would you say the current state of the Keep is?”

“We’re woefully understaffed to handle the number of prisoners he have,” Milton replied once he’d finished his bite of pie. “We get supplied every few months, but it’s not enough to ensure we stay up to date and running safely between shipments. And that’s not the worst of it.”

Victoria frowned. “What is?”

“The Keep is built on technology that is nearly fifty years old—we have rust in all the machines and cracks in the stones that grow worse every winter. In the last few years, some of the lower cells have even collapsed. We have problems with mould and vermin. Every time sickness spreads through the Keep, out graveyard gets bigger. We don’t have the equipment to repair the things we know how to fix and we don’t have the knowledge or manpower to work on fixing everything else.”

In the wake of Milton’s words, Victoria found her hunger had vanished. She hadn’t known. Hadn’t considered what kinds of problems the Keep might have been facing. But it raised questions: where had all the original documents gone? Had Logan destroyed them? Or had they never been in the castle to begin with? And why now? She’d been on the throne for _two years_ ; why hadn’t she been approached about the keep sooner?

Apparently following Victoria’s train of thought, Reaver, who was somehow giving off the impression that he was sprawled in his chair despite the lack of room to do so, idly probed, “If you have _so many_ problems, why not simply put in a request for Her Majesty to provide extra funding? Or…pay for a specialist yourself? Either would surely be preferable to the alternative.”

Milton’s jaw tensed and Victoria was well-versed enough to recognize the signs of someone who desperately wanted to throw something at Reaver. The Commander carefully set down his silverware, but his voice betrayed his annoyance as he sharply replied: “We put in requests years ago, when King Logan was still alive. Every time, they were denied.”

“You were concerned I would deny them, as well,” Victoria finished for him when he hesitated.

“Yes, Your Majesty. And I would not ask my men to part with gold their families need,” Milton added, shooting a dark look towards the bored industrialist.

“I would not ask you to,” Victoria put in before Reaver could even begin to respond. He may, conceivably, have had a point, but damn him if he ruined this. This was her chance. She needed information—on the Keep, on Turner, on why someone wanted her dead—and the only way she was going to get it was if she investigated…which wasn’t going to happen if he kept making Milton angry. “In fact, I have a proposition for you. When your ship leaves to return to Ravenscar Keep, I would like to be on it. You can show me what needs to be repaired and I can make note so the budget may be adjusted accordingly.”

The table had fallen completely and utterly silent. Not a single one of her companions succeeded in hiding their surprise. Jericho had frozen with a cup to her lips whilst Walter and Reaver had grown tense and wary. The forced frivolity of the room had vanished to be replaced with stares that indicated they disapproved of this act. Victoria’s mind was made up, however, and she refused to acknowledge their condemnation; she instead elected to watch Milton. The Commander looked almost dazed, as though he hadn’t expected she would even care to offer. For some unfathomable reason, it gave her hope.

After a long moment, Milton cleared his throat and unflinchingly met her gaze. “It would be an honour, Your Majesty. Perhaps we can make something good come out of the Keep, after all.”

She smiled, genuinely this time, and everyone slowly returned to their meal. The momentary tenseness faded, for the most part, as Walter drew Milton into a conversation about their former military days. Victoria was about to begin tucking into her soup when, just under the lull of conversation, she heard Reaver drawl, “Well, _this_ promises to be a _fun_ journey.”

She wasn’t certain if she wanted to throw a roll at him or if, even worse, she thought he might be right.

~ * ~

Lunch concluded pleasantly enough. Hobson joined them after a point, but, after several attempts to engage Reaver in conversation failed, he fell mostly silent. Trivial conversation about the state of Bowerstone and the rest of the kingdom took precedence until the last of the dishes had been taken away. Jericho was the first to excuse herself; claiming she wanted to be home before dark (though it was still far too early for that to be a genuine concern), she left with a bow and soundless footsteps. Walter and Milton were the next to leave, with the intention of visiting the morgue. Fortunately for Victoria, Walter dragged Hobson along with them with a weak excuse about docking tariffs. And so Victoria was left alone, staring out the front door as a light rain fell in blessed silence. Well…almost alone.

“Such a _fascinating_ conversation, _ma chere_ , I certainly hope you’re not _actually_ intending to go with him,” Reaver intoned from somewhere behind her.

Victoria tore her gaze away from the sodden garden and drive to frown at him. He didn’t seem bothered, leaning against one of the hall’s pillars as though he’d always been there. His walking stick was tucked under one arm and Victoria wondered if he’s crossed his arms for the sake of comfort of to appear disappointed in her…and then she decided it didn’t matter.

“Why do you care?” she asked dryly, wondering if she could convince him to leave through lack of patience alone. This was the most they’d been around each other in about a year and it was more than beginning to grate on her. As far as she was concerned, he didn’t deserve any cordialness if he was going to be a prat and, until he acknowledged that she was a creature with feelings and he’d fucked everything up, she wasn’t about to be overly cautious with _his_ feelings.

“Who said I did?” Reaver enquired, cocking a brow at her. She barely kept from flinching—why did that hurt? Fortunately, Reaver was still talking and didn’t appear to notice: “No, my concerns are more along the lines of… _honestly_ , you can’t _really_ believe this isn’t a trap. He’s all but spelled it out for you.”

“Thank you for that observation, Reaver. Perhaps you should employ those observational skills to see when your presence is no longer required. You may leave.”

Victoria pulled the door open a bit further to usher him out as quickly as possible. Reaver pushed off the pillar, walking stick in hand, and stalked towards her. At first she thought he might actually leave. Instead, he closed the door with a snap. Somehow he made the whole two inches of difference between their heights seem like a couple feet, looming over her like a shoddy penny dreadful villain.

“What do you think will happen when you reach the Keep? Do you think Milton will give you the answers you want?”

She tsked. “It doesn’t matter what I think. Perhaps he’ll help, perhaps he won’t. Either way, I’ll handle it if it becomes a problem.”

“Then you shan’t mind if I join you.”

“I—” What was she supposed to say? What, by Avo, was he _thinking_? “That’s _absolutely_ out of the question. I don’t _need_ your assistance, Reaver. And it’s _highly unlikely_ there will be _any_ risk to my person, so, as _kind_ as it is for you to offer, I must decline.”

“In terms of physical confrontation, you’re correct, Your Majesty. You don’t need my assistance; you’re capable enough. _However_. There’s one instance you’ve not accounted for.”

“Oh?”

“Say you’re correct and this _isn’t_ a trap and you get the information you seek, how then do you plan on budgeting for renovations if you don’t know the _price_?”

She faltered. She hadn’t thought that far ahead, but this felt like a test and, if it was, she couldn’t admit that she didn’t know. “Hobson can come with me. He can sum up what’s needed and figure out a rough estimate before we bring in professionals.”

“And how will he be able to give an apt estimate if he doesn’t know what companies, including mine, would charge for such work?”

Victoria froze. So that had been why he was testing her. Damn him and his ability to easily find loopholes, if only because she didn’t have an answer for him. She didn’t understand why he was being so adamant about joining them—it was likely to be tedious; far too “Hero of the people” for his liking. However, she…also had to admit that he had a point. It would be much easier to resolve everything with someone knowledgeable there. And, if he stayed out of her immediate way, it wouldn’t be too bad to have him around. He was resourceful, clever, and useful in a fight, even if she was angry at him. Besides, it wasn’t as if she could turn him down on grounds of “I don’t like you right now”; if she could, she would have fired Hobson ages ago. Besides, what did she really have to gain from refusing his request? _Peace of mind…less migraines…fewer conflicted emotions_.

“Have it your way, Reaver. Come, don’t come; _I don’t care_. I don’t have _time_ for this. I need to get back to work,” she told him brusquely, backing towards the staircase. “Stay in the castle tonight if you want…or don’t. Whatever you decide, I’ll take no part in it. We leave first thing in the morning, with or without you. Just bear that in mind.” Flustered and scowling, she turned and hurried up the stairs, leaving no room for rebuttal. Perhaps it was tempting Fate, but, in that moment, she would have rather dealt with the Crawler again than any of this… _mess_.

 _Don’t press your luck, child_ , a voice murmured in the back of her mind. She ignored it and made her was to her study in silence.

~ * ~

It was late. Darkness had spread over Albion, bathing the country in starlight. Most residents were asleep or home for the evening. It was a few hours yet until pubgoers joined them. The towns and cities had faded into calm and quiet that belied the fact that there were still terrifying monsters prowling in the darkness, waiting for someone to wander into the right patch of foliage or down the right alleyway or to forget to lock their doors. The lone figure creeping away from Bowerstone Castle was unconcerned by the thought of monsters. She was more worried about the thought of someone peeking out their window at them as they hurried down empty streets. She tried to convince herself that this was good—empty streets meant she could move as quickly as possible without alarming anyone or missing that someone might be following her—but she still felt uneasy. She tried to keep to the darkest shadows and, once she reached Bowerstone Market, she used the landscape to her advantage, disappearing into the maze of unlit backstreets where none could easily follow her.

The air grew thicker and fouler-smelling the deeper into Bowerstone she travelled. Her pace began to slow, as well. She was no longer in a part of the city where she was mostly safe, nor was it the time of night to be irresponsible. After all, the humans might have mostly retired for the night, but there were still other, more insidious things wandering the night. A pair of whores walked, arm in arm, past the opening of the alley she lurked in—one’s eyes a little too sharp with fingers like twigs and the other revealing teeth that were a little too long and a little too pointed every time she smiled—and, two blocks later, standing beside a guttering street lamp, she sidestepped a man covered in patches of long, wiry hair; he paid her little mind, picking at his wolf-like teeth with a long, sharp claw. Frankly, she was more concerned about cutthroats and thieves forcing her to reveal herself; the others, the ones who were more hunter than prey, always seemed to sense Will and usually kept back when they didn’t want to be bothered. All in all, she reached the Riveter’s Rest without incident and, ignoring the pub’s entrance, slipped into the back alley without being spotted.

“You took longer than expected,” a shadow called from a far corner of the twisting street.

“Perhaps I would have been faster if I wasn’t concerned about someone murdering me,” Victoria replied, grinning as she joined their side.

Page offered a small smile in return. Ever since Logan had attempted to push Reaver and Victoria into marriage, she and Page’s relationship has been…strained. Tense. But they both were aware that the other wanted the best for Albion, so they were attempting to move past the distrust and towards a cohesive partnership. For the most part, it was working.

“Based on past experiences, it looks like being a monarch is bad for your health. Have you considered a new profession?” Page returned, shaking her hand when Victoria offered it.

“If someone who doesn’t want to turn Albion into an industrial wasteland would like to try, I’d be happy to switch.” Pebbles skittered down from the roof above them and they both looked up. “Jer, is that you?”

“Yes,” came a faint murmur shortly before Jericho silently dropped down beside them. She’d changed into her work clothes and didn’t at all seem pleased to be there. “I watched them most of the day; they went to the morgue, then wandered through Bowerstone. Milton parted ways with them at the docks. He stayed on the ship for a while, then returned to the castle. No other deviations.”

“I’m assuming that’s when you came to me?” Page enquired, smile beginning to fade.

“Yes.”

“Have you—” a burst of laughter from the pub cut her off and she started in alarm— “have—”

Page raised a hand to interrupt her. “Perhaps we should first move this somewhere more private?”

She led them out the alley’s other entrance and down a short flight of stone steps to where a rusted iron door lay even with the Bower River’s waterline.  It had once been a sewer access hatch, but, before Logan’s regime had come to an end, it became the headquarters of the Bowerstone Resistance. Victoria felt a wash of nostalgia sweep over her as the door was unlocked and opened. How many times had she walked down these very steps to relay information to one of the members before running off on another quest? It had always seemed like something grand was being plotted here. Something that would change the world.

Now, however, the passageways were lifeless and dank. The air seemed stiller than she recalled, warmed by some factory’s illegal venting practices, and there was a distant dripping sound that Victoria didn’t recall having been there before. They passed through a large “hall” that she remembered being cluttered with small families and resistance members—always full of people chattering around small fires—only to find it was now unlit and empty but for the occasional squeak of rats. The only light was the distant glow of a distant lantern to guide them out of the darkness and into a small room.

All at once, Victoria wondered why Page was still there. Why she hadn’t left. It was one thing to remain there when there had still been things to do, but there wasn’t anyone here. No more orders to give and no tyrant to overthrow. All that was left was a now empty shell of a headquarters that had once done great things. It made her…sad. Uncomfortable. She almost didn’t want to be there.

But she bit her tongue, holding back her thoughts as Page led them into the room that served as her quarters and shut the pressure door behind her.

“There. I don’t believe we’ll be disturbed here,” Page remarked, shrugging off her coat and tossing it onto a rickety chair. As Jericho leaned against a worn table—a faded, roughly drawn map of Albion spread across the top with only a few nails holding it in place—Page lit another lantern. Light spread a touch further, glinting off the dusty pipes sprawling across the ceiling, and illuminating a well-lived-in sleeping area and work area. Victoria noted Page had an extra crate of novels that she hadn’t had last time Victoria had been there.

“Have you heard anything?” Victoria asked, pulling her attention away from the framed wanted poster above Page’s cot. “About…anything?”

“I’ve heard a lot of things; but something useful to you? Not a word.” Page sighed, shaking her head. Frowning, she sat down in the nearest chair. “I’ve never heard of this Milton, but I recall stories about General Turner. He was a war hero.”

“I looked though some old documents whilst I was with Sir Walter,” Jericho input, “and he was…prolific. Storied. I don’t understand how Logan got away with arresting him.”

It was Victoria’s turn to frown. “That explains why the rest of the militia were so afraid to overthrow Logan, though. If he could arrest the best of them, then none of them were safe. But that doesn’t explain why Turner would want me dead _now_.”

“Actually,” Page said, “it might. No one had a very good opinion of the monarchy in the end, except those actively profiting from it. Turner hasn’t been here to see the changes; he _might_ believe nothing is different.”

“Then I _need_ to convince him otherwise.”

“That is a very dangerous idea,” Jericho told her. “And I do not trust Milton. You shouldn’t be going alone. It’s likely a trap and there’s naught you can do against an entire island…I shall go with you.”

“You sound like—” Victoria broke off with a sigh. There was no need to antagonize either of them, especially when they were right. “I’m sorry; you…have a point. If you want to come, I won’t stop you. Though it promises to be a dull voyage.”

“I’ll bring something to occupy myself,” Jericho assured her. “However, I am not offering to join you for amusement’s sake.”

 _Well_ , Victoria couldn’t help but think; _at least you’re being honest about your intentions…unlike Reaver_.

“Who are you leaving control of the throne to while you’re gone?” Page enquired, a faint edge creeping into her voice. And Victoria was suddenly aware that this was a test of their trust. Whether Victoria  would choose to temporarily put someone who cared for the people on the throne or not. She almost wondered what Page would say if she knew who else was joining her voyage to the Keep, and then decided it wasn’t worth the fight.

“Walter.”

“Good,” Page replied, relief overriding any traces of anxiety. “I’ll keep my ears open and keep a look out for anything suspicious. It won’t do you much good while you’re gone, but Walter will be able to pass it on to you.”

They lingered for a while, finalizing their plans and discussing Ben’s unexpected return. As the night went on, Victoria found herself surprised by how much more hopeful she was now that she’d spoken to them both. Eventually, though, they were forced to part ways. And, as Victoria made her slow progress back to the castle, she decided sleep felt a long ways off. It didn’t feel like the Crawler’s doing, though. No; she simply feared the dawn and the long journey that followed with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many ulterior motives, so little time.


	4. A Slow Day at the Office

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year, dears!

Victoria awoke long before dawn the next morning to the sound of Jasper pottering about her room, delivering her breakfast and the gear she'd wanted to take with her to the Keep. He was making an effort to keep silent, however, and, in turn, she stared up at the darkened ceiling, feigning sleep. The room was bathed in shadow, hiding everyday objects in the gloom. The reflections in her mirror, when she rolled toward it, were fuzzier than ever. She waited until he'd returned to the Sanctuary to forcibly pull herself into a seated position and was immediately greeted with kisses and a wagging tail from Nero. She'd been plagued with nightmares the previous night and, shaking with the memory and the lack of sleep, it was a long while before she could drag herself from her bed. When she finally did, she curled up on the couch with Nero, making sure to bring a warm blanket and her breakfast tray with her. Victoria alternated between scratching his ears and giving him bits of her breakfast as she stared out at the dark gardens. It was a quiet morning, she decided. Not even the birds had risen yet.

She didn't know what to think about her impending voyage. About what possibilities laid in wait for her and what troubles would come. In fact, she didn't want to. She wanted to keep her thoughts as blank and even as a fresh piece of stationary, but thoughts kept creeping in. Both the Crawler's and her own. That she was failing the kingdom, that nothing she did would ever be good enough for the people of Albion. And she hated it. Hated it more than words could say. She knew the majority of it was rubbish, idle comments the Crawler was using to play off her fears and insecurities, but they _sounded_ like the truth. Somehow that was worse.

Walter discovered her there almost an hour later, lost in thought and still not dressed. At first he said nothing. He simply sat down beside her, occasionally reaching out to scratch Nero's ears, and her thoughts seemed to quiet in response. Walter may not have been her father, but he was the closest she'd had to one since her father's death. The one who had stayed with her and supported her and comforted her when no one else could. And, as much as she loved Jasper and could say the same things about him, nothing would ever replace Sir Walter Beck. She almost felt stronger with him here, secure. Like her decisions made sense. Victoria knew what she had to do, she simply had no desire to do it.

"I don't agree with this," Walter finally murmured, leaning back against the couch. His red doublet gaped open at the movement, but he neither seemed to care nor notice.

"I know. But what else am I to do? Sit here and not look into why or who might want me dead?"

Walter frowned. "I didn't say I didn't understand—you know I do. And I would do the same. I just wish you didn't need to do it."

"As do I."

"At the very least, I wish you weren't considering taking a pacifist and a man who would gladly betray you for the proper sum. Take soldiers; damn it, ask Scarlet to retu—"

"Scarlet just had a child," Victoria interrupted quietly. She tried to keep her tone neutral but it was difficult. Her temper had been annoyingly close to the surface lately. "And soldiers might be seen as a threat. Jericho is one of the most brilliant people I've ever met and I'm not the one to refuse her. As for Reaver…I don't like it, either, but he made a good case. Loathe though I may be to admit it. He might be a wastrel, but he has his uses on occasion."

"I still wish you didn't need to go."

 _I know_. She stared out the window. Though she couldn't see it from here, she knew, to the east, the first tinges of dawn had begun to kiss the horizon. The stars would begin to fade from view soon and the birds would awaken, calling to each other in a chorus of notes. She was certain the staff had been up for a while now, preparing for any visitors and working en masse to keep the old castle in fine repair. Soon the gardeners would be up, tending to the winding hedgerows and flowers with care. She suddenly felt a pang of homesickness stir in her gut and she tried to brush it away. This was not the first time she'd prepared to leave on a long journey and she doubted this would be the last, either. "You'll keep an eye on things for me, won't you? Make sure everything stays in order while I'm gone?"

"Of course. Both eyes, if possible." He huffed a laugh, gently resting a hand on her shoulder. "Don't worry about an old sod like me. The Keep's going to be enough trouble on its own. We'll be fine."

Smiling to herself, she found she actually believed him. Maybe, just maybe, it would be fine after all.

~ * ~

The morning progressed smoother than Victoria had expected. In almost no time at all, she'd issued a quick bit of instructions to her housekeeper. Milton and Jericho had already departed for the docks in the time it had taken Victoria to fill her "bag of endless stuff". Reaver had not, apparently, left yet. And, after all the fuss he'd made to convince her to let him come along, she suspected that was not on purpose. However, that also meant someone needed to go warn him about the swiftly approaching departure time. No one wanted to be the one to warn him, though, and so Victoria took it upon herself to volunteer for the task. She found herself regretting it with every step.

The halls were mostly empty; only staff were around, cleaning and bustling about as quickly as possible. She nodded to those who wished her a good morning, trying to keep her expression pleasant. Usually, she enjoyed stopping to chat with her staff—finding out how they and the castle were doing, what rumours they had for her that no one else would tell her, and conversations they'd overheard from the nobility who had assumed their words were completely private—but today was an exception. She was in too much of a hurry. Somewhere in her mental stream of complaints and frustrations, there was a trickle of guilt. _I'm sorry. I appreciate what you do for me, I really do_. She just…didn't want to talk to Reaver. The thought both confused and annoyed her. She knew perfectly well why she had originally been angry with him, but there was a part of her that didn't understand why she was _still_ angry at him. Why she was insisting on wasting her energy on a person who was _never_ going to apologise. Wasn't it better to move on? _No; he's an ass_. She ignored the thought that that wasn't an actual reason.

Victoria nearly crashed into a maid as she neared Reaver's temporary quarters. Stumbling back, she started to apologise…only to pause. The maid was flushed, adjusting her clothes almost guiltily. _Wait…_. When Victoria said nothing, the maid murmured a quick "good morning, Ma'am" and an apology before hurrying off. Victoria was left standing there, irritation growing. _You son of a hobbe_. Reason was telling her to knock on the door and tell him it was time to leave. She wasn't in the mood to listen to reason.

She threw open the bedroom door, heart pounding in her ears, and barely managed to keep the door from slamming into the silk-papered wall. Reaver stood before a mirror on the opposite end of the room, fastidiously fixing the last details of his wardrobe. He glanced up from tying his tie to stare almost obliviously at her. She'd expected smugness and flirtation to be thrown at her almost immediately. Taunting steps to get under her skin and to annoy her furtherly, as was his usual custom. She had _not_ expected to catch him off guard. Momentarily thrown off, she froze, fumbling for her lost words.

"It's a tad early for such violence, is it not?" Reaver queried dryly, tucking his tie into his waistcoat and pinning it down.

 _Says the man who shoots people who challenge him_ , Victoria thought. The words were returning, more than she wanted or needed to say and too quickly to keep track of them all. _Just tell him we need to leave. Just that; nothing more_. Drawing herself up, she felt the _wrong words_ slip past her lips and did absolutely nothing to stop them. "I didn't realise that acquiescing to give you lodging was the same as extending an invitation for you to fuck my staff."

Reaver paused and turned to look at her fully. The deviousness was returning, a smug smile beginning to stir at the corners of his mouth and revelation sparking in his eyes. She almost cursed, realising she'd thrown away her advantage.

"Oh? I assumed it was of no consequence," he replied almost delicately, slowly crossing the distance between them. "Or are you concerned about the honour of servants now?"

"Of course I am. My staff are under my protection. You taking advantage of them is exceedingly rude to both them and myself."

He came to a stop before her, a little too much force in his steps as they echoed about the room. He seemed intrigued—thoughtful, if the way he was staring at her was any indication—and she hated that deviousness was a look he wore so well. Victoria tried to focus on the room behind him—anything other than the curve of his lips and the way he looked at her from behind tousled half-curls—but it wasn't working.

Leaning in, he purred, "And _why ever_ does it _bother_ you?"

Victoria scoffed, rolling her eyes as she returned her attention to him. "The only thing that bothers me is your utter lack of regard for anyone but yourself. I would appreciate you _not_ extending that discourtesy to my staff."

"Is that _really_ all that has you angry?"

 _No, not by half_. "Yes."

"Are you certain?"

"Reaver, why would _anything_ else be bothering me?" she snapped, unable to find a single scrap of patience left for him. "If you'll excuse me, time is short a—"

He had taken one last step closer, leaning in until he was able to whisper against her ear: "Then why are you so flushed?"

She wanted to slap him. A tingle had started in her palm, scratchy like the need to move. She clenched her hands instead, willing herself to not connect her fist with his nose. To not feel the bone and cartilage shatter under the blow. To not watch the shock and pain that would flash across his face in response, blood dripping down his cheeks and chin. _No_. Victoria stepped back, forcing herself to relax and to not hit him. She lifted her head, defiant and hoping to look as cool and unaffected as possible. The air felt cold against her cheeks and her throat hurt.

"The last carriage leaves for the docks in five minutes," she said. Victoria was relieved to hear her voice was clipped and calm, and that she didn't sound like she might snap at any moment. "Whether or not you're in it is your prerogative, but we _will not_ wait for you. You might wish to consider being on time for once. Good morning."

~ * ~

Watching Bowerstone fade from view felt oddly surreal. She'd left Albion before, but it usually didn't make her feel like she was exchanging her home for a trap. However, the soldiers were polite, even if they weren't very conversational. Milton didn't have much time to chat, either. He would stay on deck to give orders to his men, but then, without fail, he'd be gone. Back into his quarters with little more than a word of greeting. Jericho was similarly absent, keeping to her rooms for almost the entire journey. Luckily, Hobson discovered he didn't take to sea travel very well and was similarly absent—resting so as not to be sick. She'd been mildly concerned about only having Reaver to talk to, but he seemed to realise he was the least welcome of the group and kept the farthest distance from her he could whilst still remaining vaguely close. Certainly, there were times he would offer an unwelcome comment, but, for the most part, he wandered about the deck or wrote in one of his little leather books.

In turn, Victoria kept to herself and kept an eye on the sea. She watched as Albion and its surrounding islands faded from view and as open water took over her surroundings. Days passed by in a slow, almost unchanging fashion. She woke, she waited, she ate, she researched, she slept, and then the process repeated itself. They were alone with no sign of life that wasn't avian. And, all the while, they sailed further South.

At one point, they sailed close enough to land for Reaver to call out to Milton: "I didn't realise the Keep was so close to Bloodstone."

"Not too close, fortunately," Milton replied, wandering over to him. Victoria stared at the distant cliffs and hills with a frown. That didn't seem very safe…or secure. A prison so close to a pirate town; what had her father been thinking?

Apparently Reaver agreed with her, for he asked, "Do you have many problems with pirates?"

"A few in the past," Milton confessed. "They attempted to take the Keep. After the first three or so ships, they stopped."

Reaver's only response was a noncommittal hum, but Victoria found herself more curious than ever. Her ponderings followed her the rest of their journey.

They arrived at Ravenscar Keep on a damp, grey morning just over a week after they'd departed from Bowerstone. Her initial thoughts, as they stepped off the ship and onto a small dock, was that it wasn't especially impressive. That said, the Keep itself was shrouded in a thick layer of mist, only allowing her to catch sight of the faint outline of a very large building in the distance. She cast a surreptitious eye around the fenced in dock, taking in the various debris and empty crates littering the space, before exchanging frowns with Jericho. _Where are the workers?_

"Welcome to the Keep, Your Majesty," Milton said, starting for the stairs at the far end of the dock without further ado. They slowly followed him—Reaver and Victoria occupying the front of the group, followed by Hobson, with Jericho at the back—past a boathouse and up a winding set of stone stairs. Milton didn't check to make sure they were with him as he added: "I sent a bird ahead to let my men know you were joining us. If you'd like, it wouldn't take much time to inspect the cells."

"I'll consider it," Victoria replied. She wasn't certain it'd be wise to parade herself in front of the prisoners. But she _did_ want to see what their conditions were like and how Milton and his men were treating them. What better way to ensure they were safe than to see them with her own eyes?

"Is it… _safe_?" Hobson piped up before anyone else could get a word in. "Recent events have made me somewhat _wary_ of convicts."

Victoria rolled her eyes; couldn't help it. She thought back to before she was a Hero—so innocent, so naïve—and she wondered if she'd ever been so oblivious to how dangerous the world could be. Had she ever been convinced that any part of Albion beyond the castle's walls was safe? She didn't think so. If she had, it was before she could remember—though she doubted that even a younger version of herself would have believed that Ravenscar Keep was safe.

Milton paused as though taken aback. He seemed almost lost before finally replying, "We _have_ accumulated a number of dangerous prisoners over the years, but most of the population are harmless political prisoners sent here by King Logan. I doubt they'd try to bother you."

"Yes, but the harmless ones _generally_ aren't the ones to worry about, either," Reaver observed dryly.

The soft gasp of horror Reaver's words elicited from Hobson was almost enough to make Victoria smile. _Almost_. Neither Milton nor Jericho offered any comments, however, as they continued up the stairs.

Sparse trees cropped up at random intervals, roots twisting against the rocky ground in a desperate attempt to keep themselves in place. Ancient, rusted iron lampposts lined the path, sitting crooked and too far apart like unwelcome relatives at a reunion. As they drew closer, Victoria realised her earlier thoughts about the Keep not being impressive were wrong. It was enormous and squat, sprawled atop the island's highest point like a fat hen atop a nest. A spire stood guard up ahead, connected to the prison proper by a long bridge. She could see the hazy outlines of others just like it in the distance.

Behind her, Jericho murmured something too low for Victoria to hear. Despite not knowing the words, she couldn't help but agree with the surprise in her tone. It wasn't just the size of the building that was impressive, either. The air…something in the air felt off. Confining. Heavy. Was a prison supposed to feel despairing? Or was it just her imagination?

Milton stopped halfway down the path and turned to her with a contemplative frown. "I think I might be able to find answers about who attacked you. It might be nothing, but I _am_ prepared to lau—"

**_BANG._ **

An explosion rocked the area, sending Hobson cowering with his hands over his ears whilst everyone else reached for their weapons. They could hear voices shouting, panicked, up ahead.

"I take it this _isn't_ part of your welcome presentation?" Reaver queried before Victoria could demand answers.

"No," Milton replied, removing his rifle from the sling on his back. "Something's wrong."

They hurried forward, Hobson ranting about how he's known the Keep was a death-trap all along. Victoria attempted to tune him out. Either this was a remarkable coincidence or Milton was a fantastic actor. She was hoping for the former.

The gate leading up to the Keep was locked and, more importantly, on fire. Flaming debris lied piled up against the opposite side of the bars. A small squadron of soldiers was waiting for them, apparently lost about what to do. At the sight of their commander, those that weren't wounded, or tending to them, sprang to attention.

"What the hell happened here, Lieutenant?" Milton demanded, striding up to one of the soldiers.

A very young, nervous voice answered: "Nobody quite knows, sir."

Reaver barked a humourless laugh. "I'm _terribly sorry_ , but _you don't know_ how the gate's on fire? What _exactly_ is it you _do_ here?"

Behind his helmet, the Lieutenant flushed and stammered out, "Some of the prisoners in Block A got free—started a riot, got 'hold of weapons, started killing our men! We can't break through! And now this."

He gestured awkwardly to the flaming path ahead. Milton remained quiet, clearly lost in thought. Victoria, however, was fighting the itch to run, move, to do anything. There weren't just soldiers at risk in there, but prisoners, as well. Smoke belched from a high up window and a trickle of dread made its way down her spine. Fire had no allegiances; it would consume anything in its way.

"Soldier, send a detachment to collect water," Victoria instructed, stepping forward. The realisation in their faces as the men figured out who she was wasn't gratifying. There was too much work to be done to waste time being star struck. "We need this fire put out as soon as possible. There are people inside who could be injured and, if anything's on fire in there, that number _will_ grow. We need to contain it. _Go_."

Milton didn't disagree and there was a chorus of "yes, Ma'am!" before the soldiers grouped together once more and began deciding who should do what. She looked over her companions with a critical eye. Reaver still didn't seem concerned, but a worried tick had started in Jericho's jaw.

Hobson stood to the side, wringing his hands. "I believe I shall stay here…and…make certain no one blows up the ship."

He was sweating, though. Eyes darting from side to side as though he feared someone was behind him, waiting to attack. It occurred to Victoria that she'd never seen him scared before. He was always pompous and skeevy, as though the world couldn't touch him. Well…it was now. She almost felt guilty as she enquired, "What are you going to do if someone unfriendly finds their way here? It would be safer to stay with us."

Jericho stepped up to Hobson as he let out a squeak of terror. With a gentle hand, she patted his shoulder. "It will be okay, Mr. Hobson. I can protect you."

"I've got it," Milton murmured before Hobson could say anything in response. "Right. We're not going to be able to get in through the front. Once that door's locked, it can only be opened from the inside. Fortunately, I know this prison better than any inmate. There's a way in…but it won't be pleasant. You can stay here if you wish…unless you're up to getting your hands dirty."

Jericho nodded, quietly voicing her assent and clutching her walking stick a bit tighter. In return, Hobson whimpered and stepped closer to her.

Reaver scoffed, briefly meeting Victoria's eyes. "What's life without a little risk?"

"I think we can handle it, Commander," Victoria replied. "None of us are used to sitting on our hands. Lead the way."

"With pleasure, Your Majesty."

They followed him a short distance back down their previous path, shouts from the soldiers trailing after them. Milton led them to a gap in the path's railing. One by one, they squeezed through, finding themselves on the edge of a series of drops far above ground.

Milton nodded and pointed towards the remains of a drainage channel in the base of the Keep. "Down there."

He hopped down the first of the cliffs, carefully searching for low sections to drop down from, and Reaver followed. Together, Victoria and Jericho made sure Hobson was able to descend safely. After the last drop, they landed with a splash in ankle-deep water. Judging by the off-putting colour and the murkiness of it, Victoria had the terrible feeling they'd just landed in a puddle of sewage. Reaver cursed under his breath, bemoaning the fate of his boots. Victoria didn't think he had much room to complain; after all, everyone here was wearing boots…everyone with the exception of Hobson, whose shoes were _just_ low enough for a flood of dank, fetid water to pour inside. She'd never seen such a look of abject suffering before.

"Commander," Victoria called out, "please tell me we're not doing what I think we're doing."

He gave her a grim, apologetic half-smile. "The old sewer system leads into the lower levels…it's as secure as the rest of the Keep, but I can get us through."

Victoria cringed. _Sewers_ …she'd seen a lot of sewers during the fight to overthrow Logan. They were the fastest way to get around Bowerstone without being seen. They were like underground rivers, providing hiding holes for those up to no good and homes for those with none. Some swathes were actually cleaner that certain alleys in Bowerstone, but that didn't make them pleasant. She had a feeling this was _not_ going to be one of the nicer sewers she'd traversed.

They trudged through the sludge, making their way towards an over-sized grate. The metal had long-since fallen away, but the stone arch remained strong and standing…leading into darkness.

The Crawler's laughter echoed through her mind in response to the unease. Her stomach clenched and hands trembled, but she tried to ignore it and focus on where to place her feet. Their steps squelched, muck pulling at their shoes, as the walls grew tighter around them. The earth under their feet slowly hardened. In the dim light she could see frilly mushrooms and dark moss clinging to the sides of the walls. Fortunately, the air didn't smell as bad as she'd assumed, but it was still somewhat…mephitic.

It was like walking into a mine tunnel, she decided. The only sound, apart from the rustling and breathing of her companions, was the faint drip of running water. It was soon too dark to see by any natural means and then the only source of light became the eerie blue glow of Victoria's tattoos struggling through her clothing.

"Commander Milton," Jericho enquired, "do you have an idea as to who may be behind this?"

"I suspect it's General Turner," Milton replied, wincing as Hobson stumbled through a puddle. His voice echoed oddly here, strange and grave. "I've been the warden here for seven years and I've never seen a prisoner like him. No one here has. It's like he has some sort of strange control over people—gets into their heads. We had to move him to a special block."

"Funny what… _special abilities_ fail to make it into the stories," Reaver drawled, not bothering with any semblance of quiet.

"Yeah…well…I suspect you'll see just how close those stories are to real life soon enough."

They ventured deeper into the sewer, taking care not to splash through the stream of water running through the centre of the passageway. Victoria vaguely wondered what this place had originally been like. The tunnel seemed much too tall to be a sewer. Had the tide been higher once? Perhaps high enough to float a boat through? Or was there another purpose behind the tunnel's size? Mysteries for another time, she decided, well aware she'd probably never learn the answers.

The group turned a corner and were met with a grisly sight: a mouldering corpse lay against the bars of a gate spanning the entire passage; its arm outstretched toward a freedom it couldn't achieve.

"Well, well, it appears this path is not as unknown as you'd hoped for," Reaver observed.

Milton shook his head, but his tone was even as he replied, "It's impossible to get past this gate without a key. And _I_ have the only copy."

He stepped up to the gate, fitting the key into its lock and giving it a slow twist to fight against the lock's growing rust. It swung open easily, however, when he gave it a light push. The others followed him through and Victoria struggled to name the sensation that settled over the group like fog. In the end, naming it didn't seem to matter. They were stopped by Milton before they could furtherly progress and he addressed them once more: "Before we go any further, there's something you need to know: we'll be coming out into the prison's lowest level. We call it 'the Pit'. The inmates here are…not right. Barely human. And quarters will be close."

If he was expecting one of them to call the mission off or to flee, he failed to get it. Instead, Victoria and Jericho's postures simply shifted; both of them readying to a fight they hoped would not take place.

"Lead on," Victoria instructed.

They slipped through a hole in the sewer's wall and into a filthy, compact hallway. Heavy iron doors lined both walls; the only way to see in or out of the cells they hid was a tiny window that couldn't even fit a hand. The air smelled strongly of mould and decay and screams echoed through the cramped hallways. A discarded wheelchair lay on its side, one wheel spinning forlornly. Victoria was fairly certain her heart was breaking.

"Welcome to the Pit," Milton declared, voice grim and tight.

Victoria looked to her companions, silently begging them to indicate she was seeing this incorrectly, but their expressions proved the opposite. Jericho's face mirrored Victoria's emotions, showing a sorrowful pain that seemed far too great for someone so young. Behind Jericho, Hobson had gone a paler shade of green and, at Victoria's side, Reaver's easy smirk had taken on a fixed and disingenuous quality. Despite how much it hurt to know this vision was not an illusion, it only strengthened the need to fix whatever was wrong here. This place hadn't _just_ fallen into disrepair; this was caused by years and years of neglect. They needed to make this place safe again—to chase the demons from the halls and, if they were lucky, let Ravenscar Keep begin anew.

Still, Victoria didn't think she'd seen a more miserable place. Whispers filled the halls like a wisp of wind. The clank of metal, shuffling steps, the faint drip of water, and the fact that it was nearly too dark to see made the air even more unpleasant and eerie. If the Keep had ever intended on rehabilitating this people, then it was clear they had abandoned those intentions quite quickly.

 _Yes…give to us your_ fear _…your terror…let us embrace you…let us_ take _you…._

 _Oh shit_ , Victoria thought, barely keeping the words from escaping. She could feel the Crawler unravelling, spreading, stretching the space she'd confined it to within her mind to its limit. Pain prickled just under her skin in response.

 _Come to me; let us_ fly _into your heart_.

She _hated_ times like these, when it was trying its hardest to coerce her to give in. It crooned the words like a lover. Tempting. Soft. But they were poison. Followed always by agony and a fight to keep control over her body. She couldn't let the others know about the Crawler, though. Couldn't reveal that something was amiss. She was too afraid of how they would react. Would they kill her, worried she would turn on them at any time? Would they shun her? Or, worst of all, would they pretend they accepted it whilst still staring at her as though she were a monster?

And then she realised he wasn't actually talking to her.

The inmates' whispers had grown louder, more fearful. She could hear them moving about frantically in their cells. Their voices rose up in a cacophony. Shouts echoed through the halls. Pleas for salvation and to be spared rang out loud enough to hurt her ears. Faceless voices begging for them to "keep the monster away".

"What the devil's gotten into them?" Milton queried, staring about in confusion.

But the answer lied in the question itself: a devil. A dirty trick Victoria hadn't realised it was capable of.

 _You need to stop this_ , she demanded.

 _They will all embrace the darkness eventually_ , it countered. _They will turn to moss and dust like those before them. Stopping will not save them._

_That doesn't matter, damn you! Do you realise what will happen if they discover us?_

_They cannot touch us, little bird._

_Really? And what exactly do you think two experienced fighters and a Hero will do to us, then? Tickle us into submission?_

The Crawler laughed; its cackles echoing through her mind for a solid minute before fading into nothingness. And, when he grew quiet, she could feel nothing from him. No movement. No whispers. The inmates began to quiet down—their shouts becoming mewling whimpers and sobs.

Her companions were speaking to each other, but she wasn't listening. She concentrated on where to put her feet and hoped they left the ward soon.

~ * ~

"What a ghastly sight," Hobson griped.

They were nearly up to ground level, or so Victoria hoped—they'd been walking for ages, irregardless. They'd left the Pit and its labyrinth of wards behind, trading it for winding staircases that were arguably easier to see in. She'd assumed they would come out into one of the main blocks, but she had assumed wrong. It was a rounded room, dusty and full of out-dated equipment. At the far end of the room, on a low plinth, sat two blood-stained chairs crowned with metal domes. She instantly knew what they were. Old model shock chairs. She shot Milton a damning, accusatory look.

He accepted it with a placating gesture and answered Hobson: "I closed this room when I took over. The doctors who used it said it was for 'electrical rehabilitation therapy'. But we all knew the truth. It wasn't rehabilitation, it was _torture_. Most of the prisoners back there—" he gestured back towards the Pit— "sat in those chairs every day. If they weren't insane when they came in…" He broke off, shaking his head. "Let's just say I'd rather die than be strapped into one of those things."

Without further word, he turned and began walking towards the exit. A profound silence had settled over the group as they followed him. Another ward awaited, but this one was lighter and quieter. Victoria didn't hear any movement coming from the cells, but there was definitely noise coming from _somewhere_ nearby. She wondered if they were sedated, resting, and, a moment later, she received an answer as they stepped into the next room. It was a morgue. There wasn't anyone in those cells. Or…no one among the living.

"It rather sounds like we're getting closer," Reaver observed, prodding at an empty coffin—one of many stacked against the walls.

A clatter in the next hallway sent Milton creeping forward to investigate. "Closer than expected!" he barked, leaping out of the doorway seconds before a bullet thudded into the frame just beside where his head had previously been. "Here they come!"

"Don't kill them!" Jericho insisted, readying her walking stick and shoving Hobson down, out of range, behind a table.

Reaver scoffed. "'Don't kill them'?! What are we _supposed_ to do? Dissuade them from attacking with harsh language?"

Victoria roughly holstered her pistol with a huff. "She's right. Disarm and subdue them; don't kill them if you can avoid it. We can lock them in an empty cell until the riot's over."

Reaver tsked in disgust, shoving his own pistol back into its holster and stepping back to lean against the nearest wall in stubborn refusal to take part in any of this. Victoria struggled not to yell at him about it. Milton rushed forward, ducking under a rifle to plant a gloved fist in one of the prisoner's faces before turning to engage another with his sword. Jericho had slid into the fray, almost elegant in the way she lashed out with her stick and then withdrew. Victoria, however, was too annoyed to plan out her tactics. She was too angry to be certain she'd not accidentally kill anyone and there just…wasn't time for this. Sitting here, tending to a minor annoyance when Avo-knew-what was happening elsewhere in the Keep.

"Move!" she commanded, raising a hand. Jericho dove back into the morgue and Milton dropped like a stone as an invisible wave of force burst from her fingertips. The prisoners were lifted off their feet, shouts of surprise and horror spilling from them, before they were slammed into the sides of the hallway.

Milton murmured what sounded like a curse under his breath, staring at the dazed prisoners as though he'd never seen such a thing before. Silence barely had time to fall over them before Victoria hurried forward, carefully disarming the nearest prisoner and picking him up.

"We should hurry before they awaken," she muttered, moving back towards the cells.

Jericho and Milton slowly regained their feet, rising to join her efforts. Reaver, however, pushed off the wall and did nothing; watching with a cool, calculating expression.

The prisoners were beginning to stir as Milton got the last placed into a cell. "We'll be back for you," he said to one who was staring blearily up at him. He closed the door on them, the metal protesting with a loud screech, and began hurrying towards the staircase. "We need to regain control of the prison before this dissolves into a real bloodbath."

 _What if it already has?_ Victoria and Reaver moved to follow him as Jericho pulled Hobson out of cover. They ran up staircase after staircase, no longer attempting to hide their footsteps. It would be difficult enough for anyone to hear them over the sounds of fighting coming from above them. And, if anyone _did_ hear them…well…did it matter? They'd be joining the fray soon enough.

They came out into a hospital full of injured—or dead—soldiers. The scent of blood assaulted Victoria's nostrils and smoke from a nearby fire burned her eyes. Two nurses were cowering behind one of the screens, staring up at them with wide, terror-filled eyes, and Victoria barely caught Milton's furious whisper of "this wasn't supposed to happen".

Silent, they left the hospital and made their way through the main hall. They paused just long enough for Milton to unlock the entrance, throwing open the doors and allowing the rest of his men to finally enter the prison, before entering what appeared to be Block A. Fires and fighting filled the hall; a cacophony of sound crashing against their ears. Those who hadn't been able to get out of their cells earlier either cowered as far away from the bars as they could or cheered on those still fighting. A guard's corpse dangled over the edge of the upper walkway, a chain wrapped around his neck.

"I don't believe subduing them will work this time," Reaver remarked, almost casually shooting a prisoner in the head.

Victoria didn't reply. He was probably right, but they had to try. Instead of arguing, she pushed her Will into the fires and extinguished them. Almost immediately, she felt exhaustion sweep through her body in response, protesting the over-use of Will. She tried to ignore it.

With aid from the new soldiers, they swept through both of the main blocks—locking away or killing any prisoner who tried to attack them. When it was over, however, they became aware of something they'd missed over the din of the fighting: a klaxon wail of alarms. Red lights flashing over a far doorway.

Milton cursed.

"The maximum security prisoners," he explained, rushing towards the passage. "We need to get there before he can make a break!"

They rushed down the passageway, bursting into the small chamber where the maximum security cells were located...only to find they were too late. The cells were all empty. Milton swore again, banging a gloved fist on the doorway with enough force to make Jericho flinch.

"Where are the prisoners?" Hobson squeaked, looking between the other four with wide eyes.

Jericho relaxed her grip on her walking stick, letting it hit the ground with a gentle tap. "They must have escaped during the riot."

Victoria frowned and then started as something brushed past her hip. She looked up just in time to watch Reaver brush past her, his expression unreadable but somehow self-satisfied.

"I knew something was wrong about this," Milton declared. "Breakouts are rare and we haven't had a riot in two decades…but the first time someone breaks out and attempts regicide this happens? No, this wasn't a coincidence. This was Turner. And now he's taken the others with him."

"If they're missing, then we need to get out of here! We'll be butchered!" Hobson fretted, wringing his hands together. He had the look of a deer about him, ready to run at any moment, only…much less graceful and elegant.

Milton heaved a heavy sigh. "Try to rest at ease, Mr. Hobson. I doubt they're anywhere on the island."

"We need to find them," Victoria replied.

"I agree, Your Majesty. As long as they're at large—as long as Turner's out there—Albion's at risk. As much as Turner should be priority, the others are just as dangerous."

"Who are the others?"

"Professor Ernest Faraday," Milton replied, stepping up to one of the cells. "He was a celebrated inventor and the brains behind most of Albion's recent technological advancements…until he turned on Logan. He's always been mild-mannered; never given us any trouble. But his creations…there's no telling what he might build them to do."

Victoria peeked into the cell. Bits of scrap and diagrams covered every covered every available surface of the tiny room. Posters hung on the walls, edges curling. Victoria stared at the one hanging over the lumpy cot in surprise: it was Reaver. Or a poster of his, at least. It had been vandalised to the extreme; paint splattering the surface, holes burned in, even a few slashes as if someone had taken something sharp to it. The word "INDUSTRY" had been crossed out and "DEVIANT" had been scribbled across it in giant red letters. Victoria vaguely remembered the man…or his name. She was aware she'd been introduced to him when she was very young, but she couldn't recall the specifics of the meeting. Logan and her father had spoken with him often, though. He'd been the former Head of Industry in Albion before Reaver, but she had no idea _why_ he'd been removed from his position. She tried to conjure up a mental image of the man, but failed. She sincerely hoped he wasn't as angry with her as he may have been with her brother.

Milton moved on to the next cell. "Miss Mary Godwin—also known as Witchcraft Mary. She was a notable alchemist, but her skill…comes with a very _disturbed_ mind. She was arrested and interred here on charges of witchery after the nature of her experiments was discovered. I…am told they were horrific. And I dread to think what she might do next."

This cell was much more organised, though not neat. Large books rested in stacks on every available surface and, where books didn't reside, vials and bottles rested. Page after page of notes in cramped writing sat on the desk, floor, and cot. It almost looked as though the room were frozen in time, waiting for its occupant to return. Victoria stepped momentarily into the cell, running her fingers over the covers of the books as she tried to think. A tiny figure of a balverine stared up at her, glass eyes glittering in the low light. She could find no memory of this woman. Had never met her. She couldn't recall Logan ever speaking of her, either. What experiments had she been doing to earn such a fate as to be trapped in this prison? Victoria wasn't certain she wanted to know.

"And you're already aware of General Turner," Milton concluded, stepping up to the last cell when Victoria finally departed Mary Godwin's, "the most dangerous of them all. He must have been planning this for months."

The cell was Spartan and clean to an almost obsessive degree. The bed was made with perfectly creased sheets. Nothing was out of place. The only decoration in the cell was a slightly dusty portrait and, with a start, Victoria realised she knew this man. He was stern-faced and severe-looking with a large beard…though the portrait didn't show it, she recalled him being polite and to the point. He'd visited the castle often in her youth, taking orders from both her father and her brother. She almost felt guilty at the thought of hunting him now. Did he truly hate her? Did he really want her dead? Was this all an accident? She didn't know, but it was beginning to disturb her.

"Where do you suggest we begin?" Victoria queried.

"I'm confident I know where we can find Faraday," Milton assured her. "There's only one place I believe he would feel safe hiding in. I propose we sail there immediately. Through that door—" he pointed behind them at a large, metal door— "is the records room; it holds information on every prisoner we've ever held here. I can have my men search for information on Turner and Godwin while we're away."

"Mr. Hobson should stay here with them," Jericho put in quietly.

Hobson stared at her, trying and failing to stutter out a reply.

"She's right; it's not going to be safe out there for you. You can't protect yourself," Victoria agreed with slightly less grace.

"It's not safe here, either!" Hobson protested.

"On the contrary, now that the prisoners are back in their cells, this _is_ safer than most places," Milton added, making no effort to hide that he agreed with them. "I could assign a guard to you. The records room also has additional security. If anything happens, shut yourself in and lock the door. You _should_ be safe."

Hobson floundered a bit, staring blankly between them, before clearing his throat awkwardly. "I… _very well_. If I must offer my services to this investigation, then…this study is _obviously_ the best place to do so."

"Excellent; I'll show you around and we can prepare to leave," Milton replied, leading Hobson towards the study. They both entered the other room, Jericho following soundlessly behind.

Victoria started to follow, but drew up short. It wasn't like Reaver to not add a sarcastic commentary to a conversation—especially an important one. She turned to address him and paused. Reaver had not moved from Faraday's cell. He leaned against the gate's frame, unhurried and contemplative as he stared at his disfigured likeness on the opposite side of the cell. Victoria quietly joined him.

Initially, she didn't know what to say. She didn't _really_ want to converse with him, but…at the same time, she did. She was curious. And Reaver's habit of keeping things from her did nothing to help staunch her curiosity. She stared between him and the cell, slowly attempting to put the pieces together, before remarking: "You knew him."

"As well as two infrequent acquaintances can know one another, I suppose…yes," Reaver replied, attention still focused on the poster.

Victoria turned her gaze to it, as well. "He seems angry with you. What did you do to him?"

" _Me?_ " Reaver laughed. "Why, _your brother_ stripped him of all he held dear and _gave them_ to me. _I_ had no need to _do_ anything."

"Did you know he would be here?"

"I suspected. Where else would one send a traitor?"

"Is he the reason you came with us?"

For the first time in the conversation, Reaver actually met her eyes. A lopsided, almost bitter, smile had taken up residence on his face. With two fingers, he tilted her face towards his and, for a brief second, she thought he was going to kiss her. She'd just barely pulled on her Will, ready to deliver a warning shock, when, barely loud enough for her to hear, he replied: "That's the real mystery, isn't it? The thought you can never find an answer to. Why do I do what I do?"

He released her and slipped away to join the others in the records room. Victoria simply stood there. She licked her lips, brushed her hair from her face, and followed suit. It was going to be a long trip and there was nothing left to say.


	5. Science and Industry

The constant bobbing of the ship was beginning to make Victoria feel uncomfortable. Milton had explained that there was an island where Faraday had built his workshop and, given his attachment to the place, it seemed as good a place as any to start looking. Still, it seemed odd to think such a smart man would hide in such an obvious location…though she wasn't about to begrudge not having to employ extra effort to find him.

Clockwork Island didn't look remarkable from a distance. Only like a modern seaside town. Early morning sunlight made the pale stone roofs of what Victoria assumed to be houses glow. It almost looked serene, but she was struck by the fact that there weren't any ships in port. Were they wrong in thinking Mr. Faraday had chosen to return here?

However, as they drew closer, she realised she was wrong. Everything was in shambles—the dock littered with debris, long grass growing lazily between the cobbles. It looked as though it had been abandoned for years.

"I didn't expect it to look like a town," Victoria confessed once they'd docked and begun the trek towards the buildings. "But where are all the people?"

"It was never a town," Reaver replied. He'd forgone his hat and the wind was making his hair messier by the second. "It was a tourist attraction, as I recall."

"Clockwork Island was built to showcase Faraday's creations; he hoped they would make people happy," Milton added, a faint touch of sadness in his voice.

"If Mr. Faraday wanted to make people happy then why was he locked up?" Victoria asked.

Reaver gestured vaguely and Milton shook his head. "I don't know—nobody really knows," Milton clarified. "Logan said he and his creations were a danger to mankind…as for Faraday, all he's ever said was that he'd rather die than betray his creations. Ms. Dubois, Your Majesty, have either of you ever seen one of his creations?"

Both Jericho and Victoria answered in the negative.

"When I was a child, I would queue up for hours in Bowerstone when he would unveil a new project. I still remember the slogan…it seemed like we were heading toward a brave new future, but that future seems further away than ever."

"Hopefully we can persuade Mr. Faraday to talk with us before this goes any further," Victoria replied. "Maybe we can also find out why Logan wanted him imprisoned."

It was shaping up to be a beautiful day, Victoria thought as they walked. The sun was warm, but the breeze was cool and ample. What few clouds she saw were small and wispy. Trees had long ago been planted along the sides of the paths, but their roots had crept from the soil as the years of neglect passed. They passed by an enormous model of a solar system, leaning heavily on one side as if it were tired. Benches, choked with weeds or tangled in bushes, lurked along the sides of the structure, waiting for guests that were never coming. Brightly coloured umbrellas lay torn and mangled as though an angry child had thrown a tantrum over them. As they neared the top of the stairs, they found themselves walking in shadow. Victoria shivered, the cold pricking at her through the grey wool of her trousers and waistcoat. She tried to walk a bit faster, warm up some, but the shade followed them. The stairs ended in a small park populated with a series of shacks with large, open windows ( _did they, perhaps, sell tickets?_ Victoria wondered, recalling that the monorail had always had similar structures outside its entrances). They rounded a bend in the path to find a strange mechanical… _thing_. At first, Victoria thought it was just a strange statue. And then it moved, its singular eye beginning to glow green and its humped back straightening slightly.

"Welcome, visitors, to Clockwork Island," it bid in a prim, cheery voice. "I am Huxley and I will be your guide. Please refrain from using obscene language in front of the children."

Victoria simply stared. It was an automaton. She hadn't realised they existed outside of fiction and a few loose sketches she'd seen. The sketches had all indicated the possibility to using them for labour and she hoped this one was as friendly as its voice sounded.

Surprised, Reaver swore under his breath and, almost immediately, Jericho muttered, "Is it prudent to worry about rude language in front of children when the one cursing is the only child here?"

The look Reaver gave her could have scorched the earth.

Huxley, however, was already walking away from them, perfectly oblivious. "If you will follow me, we will begin the tour. Please keep your belongings with you at all times and try not to stray from the group."

" _Come on_ ," Victoria bid urgently, fascinated and more than a little nervous as she followed Huxley. Was _this_ what Mr. Faraday had been building? If so, then to what purpose? How had he kept them a secret for so long?

Huxley opened the front gates and led the quintet through. Pastel plastered houses lined the brick and cobble street. Tiny, immaculately pruned gardens lay before each house and gas lamps sat at regular intervals down the street. Occasionally, sitting between the empty houses, Victoria caught sight of an elaborately cut hedge.

"Fuc—I mean, bloody hell, it's like Millfields and Bowerstone had a child," she breathed, transfixed. The others murmured their agreement.

"We begin with what is yet to come," Huxley announced. "Astonish your senses; give flight to your fancy by stepping onto The Street of The Future."

"I'm beginning to wish I'd paid this place a visit while it was open," Milton remarked.

"You're not the only one," Reaver cut in.

"Before you is an everyday Bowerstone suburb as it will be fifteen years from now," Huxley continued, seeming to neither notice nor care that they were talking. "Yes, the future is in our grasp. Please walk amongst the citizens of Tomorrow—see their joy, marvel at their superior wellbeing."

As impressive as it all was, Victoria was beginning to feel more than a little unnerved. The further they walked, the more automatons they encountered. All of them needed various amounts of repair—sparks flying from their exposes wires, metal limbs half-destroyed or moving in a way that indicated structural damage. Some were caught in an eternal loop of waving at nothing. All of them, however, seemed utterly oblivious to anything happening outside of their pre-set routines.

"In the world of Tomorrow, there will be no conflict, no jealousy, no selfishness. Thanks to science, people are finally happy."

Huxley led them past a stone gazebo, a bronze statue of a middle-aged man sitting with a robotic dog looming over them as they approached.

"Bit unnerving, isn't it?" Milton observed in a whisper.

"People _actually_ came to see this?" Jericho added, unsettled. She clutched her walking stick tighter, at the ready in case something jumped out at them.

Giant generators sat hidden on either side of the road, giving off sparks and humming gently. It was only after noticing them that Victoria realised there were wires running between the houses, leading up to something far ahead. _Maybe we shouldn't have come in through the front door_.

"Marvel at their idyllic lives," An automaton bowed to Huxley and he bowed back. "Would you not want to raise a family here?"

"No, I most certainly _wouldn't_ ," Reaver retorted. Out of everyone, he appeared to be the most relaxed. But his gaze seemed to travel everywhere, never stopping for long, and there was a tenseness to his shoulders that was unlike him.

Fortunately, Huxley didn't remark or otherwise react to Reaver's comment. He simply led them onwards. The sea breeze was cool, rustling both men's coats and the scarf Jericho had wrapped around her head and shoulders, and it carried with it the scent of salt and flowers along with something metallic and grimy that made Victoria think of Bowerstone Industrial.

"This is the future Faraday Industries can bring to Albion: peace and contentment for all. This concludes our tour. We hope all your dreams are fulfilled," Huxley bid.

He had come to a stop at the end of the road, before a set of iron gates too tall for anyone other than, perhaps, Jericho to climb. Peering through the bars was like catching a glimpse of Industrial, except…all the workers were gone. Victoria stepped forward, wondering if she would be able to force them open. Searing pain burned through her palms and she threw herself backwards as sparks erupted over the bars. _Electrified? But how?_

"I know who you are," a harried, well-educated voice accused, coming from a pair of small speakers above the gates, "and I know why you and that—that _bloodthirsty deviant_ have come! You'll never get what you want! _Never!_ I'm ready for you, Your Majesty; I am _most_ ready. And if it is violence you seek, then it is violence you shall have!"

"Mr. Faraday, the only thing I want is to speak with you on peaceful terms!" Victoria shouted, channelling a bit of Will into her hands so she could tug on the gates. "Mr. Faraday!"

"I don't believe he's listening," Reaver said, putting a hand on her shoulder.

Victoria turned at his touch, ready to shake him off and discovered that the automatons that had seemed so eerie before were no longer trapped in their cycles, but were making their way towards them. _Oh no_.

"This is a security announcement to all visitors," Huxley announced, crouching low near the gate, "please take cover. Faraday Industries accepts no responsibility for any mutilations, fatalities, or grazes in the event of an emergency. And now presenting the latest in armed defences, a round of applause for: The Colin Mark II."

Victoria felt a trickle of trepidation slip through her as the automatons' eyes glowed red. She drew her knives and tried to ready herself, looking for weak spots in the automatons' framing even as Reaver and Milton began firing. She never got a chance. She blinked and a pair of automatons were before her. _Improvise, then_. She ducked under one of their reaching hands, pushing a wave of electricity through one of them before slicing at the other's exposed wiring. As they fell, she felt something slice into her arm and whirled to face her attacker. There was no need. Its chassis jerked slightly before it was knocked to the ground, revealing a frowning Jericho. Her cheek was bleeding, but she'd taken a bronze cap off her walking stick to reveal an enormous spike hidden underneath. She looked most displeased about this turn of events. Victoria gave her a quick nod of thanks before turning back to the others.

Lightning coursed over her hands as she threw bolt after bolt, overloading the automatons' circuitry. With their combined efforts, it was over in minutes. They stood there a moment, catching their breaths. Unlike the battle at Ravenscar Keep, no one had come out of this unscathed. Jericho and Milton were both still bleeding. Reaver looked perfectly fine, but was holding his arm in such a way that made Victoria think he was still healing from a blow to his ribs.

Victoria didn't know whether to be furious or not. _Now_ what were they supposed to do? The gate was immovable and Faraday was sending creatures far stronger than any human after them. How were they supposed to convince Faraday that they didn't mean any harm if they had to fight just to get to him? There had to be another way to reach him, to convince him—but, frankly, Victoria wasn't certain she could get him back without killing him.

"Looks like the street of the future isn't so different from the streets of today," Milton observed, loading his rifle as Jericho capped the spike on her walking stick. His words cut through Victoria's thoughts like an axe and she wasn't sure whether or not she was grateful for the distraction. Oblivious, Milton added, "I'm beginning to think _this_ is why Logan had Faraday locked away."

"We need to find him," Victoria said with a frustrated huff. "Split up; see if there's an alternate route."

It didn't take long to find one; a brick wall between two of the houses had collapsed and been hastily repaired with a couple wooden planks that were barely staying in place. Milton was able to knock them down with only a couple strikes from the butt of his rifle. They followed the alley in eerie silence. Their footsteps echoed off the walls. Out of view of the street, huge shipping crates and boxes were everywhere—curiously untouched by weather and time. A collapsed warehouse spilt rubble onto the ground like a cup of dice. Milton hurried ahead, past the tatty posters on the walls and towards a hole in the brick fence.

"It looks like there's a canal down there, Your Majesty," he called, kneeling beside the hole. As they reached him, Victoria saw the roof of the building just beyond the wall had collapsed, providing an opening into the empty warehouse. A grated floor lied far, far below. "Shall we continue?"

Victoria hesitated a moment and then nodded. Milton went first, landing with a groan and a loud clang and rattle from the metal. When he indicated everything was fine, Jericho followed. Her landing was far lighter, all her years of running over rooftops coming in handy and lending her assistance.

She caught hold of Reaver's arm before he could join them. He raised a questioning brow at her and she said, "I don't think you should follow us."

"Oh? And why not?" he enquired, trying to shake her off.

Victoria pulled him away from the edge before finally releasing him. " _Because_ , out of _all_ of us, it was the two of us that he singled out."

" _And?_ "

" _And_ you stole his job, his assets, and everything else to his name. It doesn't matter that it was actually Logan who took them from him, he still blames you. _Wait here_. Let me handle this."

"Do you _really_ think he's going to stop and listen to you just because I'm not there?" Reaver returned, tone thick with mockery. "Be sensible, _Princess_. The only way my absence will mean anything to Ernest is if _you're_ not there, either."

"Firstly, _don't_ call me that. If you're going to insist upon using a title, then you can _damn well_ use the proper ones, _Your Lordship_. Secondly, I haven't done anything to him. All his assumptions are based on knowledge of Logan; I need to prove him wrong. And _you can't help me_ with that. This is the _last_ time I'm going to be nice about this. Wait here or I will _force_ you to wait here." Her hands crackled with Will. She had no idea how she could stop him, but she _would_ try. It wasn't as though he needed to know she didn't have a plan.

There was something in the way he stared at her that made her stomach clench and brought back memories of emotions she hadn't thought of in a year. Something hot and overwhelming; a mix of feelings she didn't understand behind his blue eyes. It reminded her of an evening early in her rule—a court session that had ended in a heated debate. He'd later had her against the wall of the library, fingers in her hair as he asked to please, _please_ — Heat flashed through her, followed by a rush of cold, but she refused to acknowledge it or look away.

After a moment, he took a step back and, laughter in his expression, gave her a taunting half-bow. "As you wish... _my queen_."

Eyeing him suspiciously, she slowly turned away and returned to the hole in the wall. _Whatever's going on with him, figure it out later_.

"Though I _do_ wonder what you suggest I do to pass the time in your absence," he called, sounding far too devious to mean anything good.

"I'm sure you'll find something to occupy your time; you always do," Victoria snapped, the words coming out far harsher than she'd intended. She told herself she didn't care and leapt down to join Milton and Jericho. The grated walkway rattled when she landed, but Reaver didn't follow.

"Is Reaver not coming?" Jericho murmured with a questioning glance as they moved towards the edge of the walkway.

Victoria gave a half-shrug and kept her expression perfectly neutral as she replied, "Reaver elected to stay behind."

Victoria's assumption that the building was a warehouse proved false as they dropped down into the remains of a ruined factory. The floor was covered in earth and stagnate water. Bits of broken walkway lay obscured by long grass; vines had woven their way around the old machines and up the brick walls. Saplings had taken root, their anaemic trunks struggling for sunlight. It was…eerily beautiful, Victoria thought. Nature taking back what Man had attempted to claim.

They left the factory behind and made their way out into the canal. Icy water and mud splashed beneath their feet with every step. Reeds had begun to crowd the earthier sections of the waterway and algae coated the walls like slimy green wallpaper. Every once in a while, one of them would trip over a submerged barrel or crate and nearly fall face-first into the calf-deep water. And then they noticed a buzzing—like a cloud of insects. Things, small and round, hovered over the various bits of debris. At the sight of the trio, they dropped what they were doing, some flying off while the lights of others glowed scarlet.

"I have instructed my cleaning and repair crew to clear the canal of detritus," the voice on the hidden speakers told them. "Now _go away_."

This time the fighting wasn't so bad. The clockwork bugs were small and lightweight, making it easy to crash them into each other or smash them despite their desire to shock them. Still, Milton complained about bugs under his breath with every strike and Victoria found herself mildly concerned. Again, she wondered what all Mr. Faraday had at his command. How many more automatons were at his disposal? He said he _loved_ his creations, so _why_ was he using them to attack? There was something dodgy about this, too. Like she was missing a vital piece of information. It was an unwelcome sensation.

Once the insects were little more than scrap, they continued on. Up the nearest stair, down an alley, and through a building's empty husk. Stepping outside once more, Victoria glanced upwards, searching for a sliver of sky. The buildings here were placed so closely together that it was almost claustrophobic—easy to forget they weren't underground. It was, admittedly, cleaner than Bowerstone (not that _that_ took much effort) but dust and cobwebs clung to everything and something about the air felt stale. She couldn't shake the feeling of being watched, either. So many buildings and empty windows…how easy it would be for someone to follow them.

"Watch your step," Milton bid, pulling Victoria from her thoughts as he offered Jericho a hand. They'd reached another canal.

"Why can't you leave me alone?" the voice called, frustration colouring every word. "I will never do what you ask, do you hear me? Never! Rulers may believe they can impose their will on whomever they so wish, but I was born to make _dreams_ come alive. Not to create death! You may _see_ the weapons your brother forced me to make, but they will _never_ leave this island! And neither shall I!"

She had just splashed back down into the canal again, but the cold seeping through Victoria's veins had nothing to do with the water's temperature. "Is he…suggesting what I think he is?"

Milton's face was grim. "That must be why Logan had him locked up; he refused to build him an army!"

"Not just any army," Jericho put in. "A machine army would not feel pain, would not need medical supplies or support, nothing would stop it. Perhaps he thought it was the only way to combat the Crawler?"

"He must have, but it doesn't make any more sense," Victoria confessed. Her stomach churned. If Logan had gone to so many extremes…what else had he done that she had no knowledge of? "We should continue on; he's likely to be up ahead."

"One thing's for sure, if he thinks you're here for those machines, he's not going to let us go easily," Milton replied, shaking his head.

They splashed along the canal, mucky water going everywhere. Beached boats lay half overturned on embankments, hulls rusting. A small steamer lay upside down, crashed into a tunnel. The most clear path forward…and it was blocked. Stubbornly refusing to find a new path, Victoria carefully climbed it, trying to peer through to the other side. It was pitch black. Impossible to see.

"I think we can slip through," she called down to the others, "but I don't know where this leads."

"We'll find another way, Ma'am," Milton replied, helping her climb down. "We don't want to be trapped in a space that tight."

Against her will, Victoria agreed. They had just started to walk away when a high pitched whistle began to echo through the tunnel behind them—it almost sounded like a kettle left on too long. As one, they turned back towards the steamer. _What in Avo?_ Alarm threaded through her and Victoria threw up a shield spell seconds before the steamer exploded. She felt like a building had collapsed on top of her, but the spell held. Smoke and dust swirled around the outside of their tiny bubble. Fire danced through the artificial gloom imposed upon them. But they were unharmed.

"Impressive ability, Your Majesty," Milton muttered, rubbing at the back of his head from where he'd thrown himself to the ground.

"Thank you," she replied. "You both might want to stay down a moment." She threaded ice through the spell, turning the protective bubble into a glittering sphere of crystalline frost. Before it could harden and become solid, she pushed outward. The bubble burst, sending frost in every direction. It fell in piles of squishy wetness, melting on contact with the hot stone and metal. The screams of heated metal ripping itself apart as it cooled too quickly rent the air, but the fires were doused before they could spread.

"Look," Jericho bid, picking her way through the debris. The tunnel was utterly impassable now, blocked from the explosion's damage. She pulled her scarf from her shoulders and wrapped her hand with it before reaching down to pick up something.

Victoria squinted, trying to figure out what it was. Small, somewhat cylindrical. "Is that…a _dog_?"

"A clockwork dog's _head_ ," Jericho replied, turning it to and fro to get a better look at it. She pressed her hand to the scorched metal, testing if it was still hot, and then placed it in her bag.

"So the automatons are lethal, the bugs can shock you, and the dogs are bombs," Milton summarised, frowning more than ever.

"Mr. Faraday _really_ would like us to leave."

But they did not leave. They couldn't—both because the mission wasn't complete and because there was no reasonable way to get back to the ship. And so they ventured on.

They checked both sides of the canal, but the stairs of most of the buildings had rusted or rotted through, making them impossible to use. One of the buildings contained nothing but a pile of broken automatons—their blue paint chipped and peeling, lenses dangling precariously from their metal heads. Milton stopped to prod at the pile with his rifle.

"Can you imagine if this technology got out?" he enquired, hurrying to catch up with the girls as they left the factory. "It'd be the end of the Army—who would want to be a solder with these on the field? Who would want to _fight_ them?"

Victoria didn't reply; instead, she and Jericho exchanged dark looks. No, these machines would not mark the end of the army or war. It would just make it all the worse. Nations pushing themselves to create bigger, more powerful weapons. It would be an arms race. She didn't want to imagine what would happen then. How terrible the weapons would be.

And, once more, Victoria wondered if she could truly meet Mr. Faraday on peaceful grounds, knowing what he could do with his work. Clearly the circumstances he'd been arrested under were wrong and deserved to be righted, but what were they to do about this? His work, in the wrong hands, had the potential to destroy so many lives and to bring about far worse things. How could she accept that price, knowing it would come?

They entered a factory that looked somewhat more structurally sound than any of the others they'd checked thus far. Though the ground was caked with filth, the walls and stairs appeared sound…unfortunately, the gate dividing the upper and lower levels was, as well.

"Do you think you can climb it?" Victoria asked Jericho with a frown.

"I may be able to, but I do not trust it to hold my weight," Jericho replied.

Milton gave it a rattle and a push. "I doubt I can bash it open, either."

"There must be a key somewhere," Victoria murmured. "Split up; see if you can find anything."

They tramped back down the stairs and Victoria wandered. A passage sprawled out before her, keeping to a sensibly simple path, and she followed it, trying not to think. Unfortunately, there was very little that was distracting about it and it ended with a series of plain, uninteresting-looking doors. _Best check them all_.

The first room was empty and the second and third were full of age-warped barrels. The fourth was a small, office-like space, barely larger than a closet. A chair, bookcase, desk, and a shelf of drawers had all been squashed into the small space. She bustled about, brick dust tickling her nose as she felt around in the corners of every piece of furniture. _Nothing_. Cursing under her breath, she turned to leave and search the last two rooms. _Wait…brick dust?_ She hadn't seen it in any of the other rooms and the masonry looked secure to her eyes. Therefore— _Someone's been messing with the bricks in this room_ , she thought, stepping back inside.

Crouching low, Victoria slowly traced the dust to a slightly uneven brick under the desk and pulled it free. It was not hollow or rigged to hold anything and she could see nothing in the void behind where it had laid but darkness. _This had better not be a trap_ , she thought, reaching into it. Her fingers brushed against cold, damp metal—grimy pipes—and then something rectangular. Curious, she fumbled to manoeuvre it out of its hiding place.

It was a chest of some sort—almost as wide as the brick had been long and nearly twice that in length. It wasn't locked. She carefully opened it to reveal a series of what looked like water-damaged letters and a small book. Intrigue pricked at her and she picked up a letter at random. It smelled musty as she unfolded it.

_Dearest Ernest,_

_We received word of Charles' state and my heart is broken for you. What will you both do? Valerie and I wish you would both come back to Bowerstone—our doors are open to you and I worry the physicians will struggle to maintain Charles on Clockwork Island. Is there any way we could convince you both to stay with us?_

_I'm so sorry, Ernest. I hope beyond hope that he will recover quickly. Please tell us they know what his affliction is and have some idea as to how to cure it. I can't_

The letter ended there, the rest lost to age and water damage. Victoria didn't need it, though. The way the words had been formed…she knew that writing anywhere. Her father. So he had known Mr. Faraday, then. Enough to use terms of endearment in easily pilfered letters. Furtherly intrigued, she refolded the letter, returned it to the box, and rifled through the other letters. She didn't open them, but she found several more from her father, a couple in Logan's hand, and several more in writing she couldn't quite place. The vast majority, however, had no address; only "For Ernie" scribbled on the outside in unfamiliar writing. The book was a journal. Flipping to the last few filled pages, Victoria read the words with her heart in her throat. Faraday had written candidly about the days when Logan's rule had only just begun to worsen—the sudden lack of funds and demands for automatons as well as the threats and anger. Each page was brimming with frustration and bitterness. The way Faraday wrote it, she wondered just how many people close to him Logan had scared off before the end.

 _Why are these here? Why aren't they with Mr. Faraday?_ Had he hidden them? Clearly the answer was yes, but _why_? Had he not wanted them confiscated when Logan found him? Or—

 ** _BANG_**.

Victoria jumped, nearly dropping the box. Gunshot…what on earth? She clumsily regained her feet, fumbling to place the box into her bag. On her feet, she _ran_ —footsteps clattering loudly and heart pounding in her ears. If someone was hurt….

She burst back into the entrance area to find Jericho waiting. The younger girl had been resting against a wall—arms folded and a frown on her face—but she seemed surprised when she saw Victoria.

"What happened?" Victoria panted.

Jericho hummed. "We discovered the key in a lockbox. Commander Milton thought it would be wise to shoot the lock off."

Victoria sighed with a mix of relief and frustration. While she was glad they were unharmed, she didn't appreciate the scare. Nor the fact that, if the automatons could hear, surely any that were nearby had heard that.

"Let's see if it fits so we can get out of here," Victoria replied, hoping Faraday didn't have something worse waiting ahead.

"He already went up," Jericho said, pushing off the wall.

Together they mounted the stairs and began the trek to re-join Milton. He was waiting for them beside the open gate. The mood seemed far more sombre now—like everyone had finally realised the most likely outcome of this endeavour and no one was pleased to think on it.

They worked their way up to the roof. The stairs and walkways were far less sturdy in the upper floors than the lower and the iron protested their movement all the while. The sun was much higher that it previously had been when they finally reached the roof. A rickety metal bridge greeted them, as well. _Right…not concerning at all_. Single file, they crossed from one roof to the next. If Victoria had expected the end to be a relief, she was sorely mistaken. The next bridge was far worse: nothing more than a couple wooden planks laid out to span between buildings. Victoria nearly groaned. Gritting her teeth, she hurried across them as quickly as possible. Milton looked equally thrilled at the crossing, but Jericho crossed over easily.

A cluster of automatons was waiting for them as they stepped into the upper levels of a building. As the fighting began once more, Victoria heard the voice cry out: "Look how you've corrupted my life's work! Haven't you seen enough? You've taken my work, you've taken years of my life, but you _cannot_ take my soul! No, _that_ is out of reach even to Albion's monarch! I will encase it in metal and I _will_ strike you with it."

Victoria attempted to throw herself out of the way as an automaton launched itself at her—its enormous fist raised to strike—but caught herself on the walkway's railing. She barely was able to bring her knives up just in time to catch the blow and keep it from connecting. Wrestling with it, she managed to get it over the railing and watched as it hit the ground far below, shattering the stone as its metal limbs smashed apart.

"Victoria!" Jericho called and Victoria looked up just in time for the other woman to bat over a pair of the clockwork bugs. Victoria froze them in mid-air, ice crystalizing over them like a delicate, glittering shell, and let them drop to the ground, shattering.

A boom echoed from the other end of the walkway, shaking everything. A pile of scrap metal lay burning there, courtesy of Milton's rifle. He was attempting to lure the automatons toward him, shooting at their limbs. Jericho crept up behind them, driving her spike up under the nearest automaton's chassis and twisting until it collapsed. Victoria hooked one of her blades in an automaton's arm, attempting to knock it over and only succeeding in ripping the arm off. _Oh no_. The automaton lunged, remaining arm flailing, as she tried to duck under its reach. Knocking it off balance in the same movement, she drove it to the floor and buried her knives in its circuitry. A couple more shots from Milton and they were alone once more.

They left the wreckage of the automatons behind and mounted a staircase that led up and out of the factory. Another building towered above them. Wiring spread from it like spider's webs, branching out in every direction. Looking up, Victoria could just barely see the top of some device, glowing and sparking with power. A hum permeated the air, low but off-putting. Making her bones feel like they were vibrating.

"Do you think Mr. Faraday's up there?" Jericho asked.

"I'd bet every bit of gold I have on it," Victoria answered.

The stairs ended in a set of wrought iron gates. Electricity raised the hairs on her arms and Victoria paused before pushing the gates open. Did she really want to do this? There was no guarantee of any of her plans working out. Not to mention if Milton or Jericho failed to listen to her, one of them could be badly injured. _I have to try_.

"Stay here," she instructed. At their querying frowns, she raised her hands placatingly. "Mr. Faraday made it sound like he had something waiting for us; I'd like to make sure it's clear first. Please just…wait until I say it's clear."

She stepped out into the courtyard, letting the gates slam shut behind her. Her footsteps echoed hollowly off the aged cobbles. She had expected automatons, weapons, or some fantastical creation Faraday had yet to send after them. There was nothing. The mechanical hum had grown louder, the air crackling. She paced the width of the yard, hoping for answers to what Mr. Faraday had been up to or where he'd gone, but there were none. With a sigh, she made for the far gates, hoping to at least open the path back to the main street.

The sound of a lock opening echoed through the courtyard and she turned around just in time to see a vault-like door she'd previously dismissed roll open. Faraday stood before her in an enormous mechanical suit. Steam hissed from the armour's joints with every movement, sparks occasionally flying forth. Victoria took an instinctive step back and gathered her Will. _I've only got one chance at this_.

"Is this the perfect soldier you wanted, Your Majesty?" Faraday raged, stomping towards her. "You shall _never_ have it."

He threw himself forward and, at the last second, Victoria let loose a wave of energy. Crates and debris were pushed back. Milton and Jericho barely avoided being knocked back by the invisible force, and Faraday was lifted off his feet, body slamming into the door behind him. He didn't immediately get up. Instead, he simply lay there a moment, dazed, and Victoria hurried to his side. She carefully pried his helmet off of him and tossed it away.

Faraday stared up at her with tired, sad eyes. His grey-streaked hair was dishevelled and, as she knelt down beside him, he looked hopeless. Sounding almost close to tears, he said, "Well, then…if you want to kill me, you may as well. Your brother took everything I had left. What else do I have to live for?"

"I don't _want_ to kill you, Mr. Faraday," she replied truthfully. As dangerous as his creations had the potential to be, the same could be said for almost _any_ technological advancement. And, if he was honest about just wanting to make people happy, then it seemed like it was uncalled for. "I am not my brother."

"Then _why_ are you here?"

"Originally, to get information on why someone's trying to kill me. Now to make sure you're alright. Are you?"

"No. I'm not…and I know nothing. Are you certain you want nothing to do with my creations?"

"I wouldn't dream of abusing them, Mr. Faraday. You've been through a lot…would you be willing to come back to the Keep just long enough to secure your release and to make sure you're healthy? We can arrange anything else you may need in that time."

He stared down at his metal-gloved hands as though he wasn't certain he believed this was truly happening. After a moment, he gave a hesitant nod and added, "May we rest first?"

"We can rest as long as you need."

~ * ~

The sun was setting by the time Mr. Faraday was ready to leave. Initially wary, he had questioned her on the current politics and state of affairs within Bowerstone for some time. Victoria had answered to the best of her abilities and was actually pleased that he was willing to talk with her. Eventually, she and he companions helped him out of his suit. Free of the mechanical shell, she could see he was thin and malnourished. He looked frail, sickly, but was determined to walk as best he could. Under his instruction, they turned off the power to the gate and, leaving the suit behind, they made their way back over the bridge, towards Clockwork Island's entrance—Faraday eventually ending up leaning heavily on Victoria for support as they went.

"What is that sound?" Victoria enquired. There was a low babble as though multiple voices were speaking in tandem up ahead.

"Might it be Reaver?" Jericho returned.

Victoria blinked, surprised. "I forgot he came with us, to be honest. I hope he hasn't gotten into any trouble."

It was a futile hope, she knew. If trouble was to be found, Reaver invariably found it.

"—shows that if you had screwed the box in properly, this would no longer be an obstacle," a cheerfully polite mechanical voice observed.

"I screwed it in properly! I am _not_ at fault for working with _less than ideal_ components!" came the annoyed response.

A second mechanical voice input: "If it had been installed at a forty-five degree angle—"

"And _you_ —how about I build a ladder into that carcass to _get you off my back?_ "

Exchanging confused glances, they exited onto the promenade to find one of the most curious sights Victoria had ever come across. Huxley stood beside another automaton—one that had clearly just been assembled with bits of scrap from the countless destroyed brethren around them. Reaver stood nearby. He'd removed his jacket and pushed up the sleeves of his shirt in what Victoria supposed was an attempt to keep his wardrobe clean—it had done little more than show off the spindly lines of the tattoos decorating his lithely muscled forearms and hands. Grease sullied his arms and shirt; dirt had pressed into the knees of his trousers.

Noticing their stares, he turned and crossed his arms with a huff. " _What?_ "

Victoria found herself strangely speechless. _Did you…did you_ build _an automaton?_ That seemed the case, for where had the second one come from, but… _why?_ Why bother?

She heard a sarcastic snort from the vicinity of her mid-bicep and looked down at Faraday. He wasn't attempting to hide his… _dislike_ for Reaver, but he _did_ seem to be struggling with a touch of amusement.

"You've installed the personality matrix backwards," Faraday observed as they passed Reaver.

"Yes, I'm aware, _thank you_ ," Reaver snapped, grabbing his coat from where he's draped it over a garden fence. "I'll make a point of remembering that for the next time I'm left to _wallow_ in insufferable boredom."

 _You…did it because you were bored?_ Victoria wasn't certain she could be surprised by him anymore. "Come on. It's time we returned."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not feeling so well, so I decided to update early rather than not at all. Is it just me or are these chapters a little too long? Not that I can do anything about it at present, but...y'know...next fic. Maybe a little shorter? What do you think?


	6. Unnatural Laws

The voyage back to the Keep was relatively peaceful in the sense that they weren't attacked by anything and no one tried to start a fight. In an odd turn of events, Jericho had taken to keeping watch over Faraday, both to converse with him and also to make sure he remained alright. Milton was in a funny mood. He claimed it was only concern for what Godwin and Turner were doing, but Victoria didn't think so. It was almost like he was waiting for her to change her mind about Faraday. The thought that concerned her was _why?_ Why did he think she would change her mind? She wanted to ask but knew it wouldn't get her an answer. Perhaps the truth of the matter was that Milton trusted her as little as she trusted him. And then there was Reaver. He'd gone out of his way to try to speak with her a few times, but she'd always made up an excuse to not talk. Victoria was perfectly aware she couldn't avoid him forever—they would have to talk sooner or later; hadn't she avoided him for long enough?—but she wasn't up to dealing with him right now. Not when the Crawler was writhing and twisting within her, trying to force its way to the surface. Not when she desperately needed to maintain control. And if anyone knew how to make her lose control, it was Reaver.

Besides, she needed to think of a way to explain this to the court. She'd gone to find who had sent an assassin after her and now here she was setting free a man capable of producing machines that functioned much like humans. It was revolutionary…and dangerous. And she already knew he would not be the last she pardoned. Ravenscar Keep's record room was full of the names of prisoners who had been placed there without reasoning. They had to be allowed to go free. They had to be given a chance.

It was night when they arrived back at the Keep and the prison had taken on a menacing quality like a dragon laying wait in the dark. Victoria and Jericho immediately parted from Reaver and Milton, bidding them to join Hobson in the records room. The women helped Faraday find an empty bed in the infirmary and had one of the nurses fetch him something to eat.

Victoria was just about to leave and find Hobson and the others when Jericho caught her arm. "What is it?"

"I do not believe it's wise to leave Mr. Faraday alone," Jericho replied. " _Someone_ opened the door to his cell; _someone_ helped him escape to Clockwork Island; _someone_ who most likely works for General Turner. Turner must have need of Mr. Faraday for something, and I am not willing to let a phantom come and murder Mr. Faraday just to tie up loose ends."

"Are you volunteering to stay here as Mr. Faraday's body guard?"

"Yes. Until General Turner is found and questioned, I would prefer to not allow any opportunities to present themselves to his favour."

Victoria paused, mulling it over, before nodding. "Very well. Thank you, Jer. I don't want anything to happen to him, either." She carefully retrieved the worn box of letters from her bag. "Would you mind giving this to him when he's had some rest? I found it on the island."

Jericho answered her with a small, barely visible smile, and, after accepting the box, returned to Faraday's side. Warier than before, Victoria left the room.

The prison seemed eerily quiet now. Gone were the sounds of fighting and the stench of smoke. Everyone was asleep. She walked slowly, her footsteps echoing through the halls. Her stomach was beginning to ache—claws sunken deep into her gut. It was the Crawler, she knew it was. And she didn't know what she was going to do if it made a genuine effort to take control.

At the thought, agony tore through her mind, sparking along every nerve in her body. She stumbled, leaning against a wall for support. Her skin felt like it was trying to peel away from her body. Muscles contracted with pain. She wanted to scream, but couldn't. Couldn't risk calling someone to her. Her Will seared channels under her flesh, like burning claws. Claws of something trying to scratch its way out of her.

"Your Majesty? Are you well?"

All at once, the pain stopped. Her vision cleared and her head stopped spinning. Breathing heavily, she looked up to find a young soldier looking up at her with concern. Victoria gave a terse nod. "I am, thank you. Just tired."

Trying to regain her composure, she straightened up and kept walking. The Crawler's laughter echoed through her mind; malicious whispers following her until she entered the maximum security wing.

Milton, Hobson, and Reaver were deep in conversation when she entered the records room—their words tapering off abruptly as they turned towards her. Reaver's smirk faltered at the look on her face, but she ignored him, attempting to look as though nothing was wrong.

"Do we have a location for Turner or Ms. Godwin?" she enquired. She was immensely pleased when her voice neither broke nor wavered as she spoke. She could see her reflection in a goblet atop the nearby desk, pale and drawn as though she'd just been suffering from a terrible illness. But at least shadows weren't pooling on her skin, rising in wisps and— _stop thinking about that_ , she snapped to herself.

Hobson hesitated, clearly perturbed by her appearance, and stepped forward. "Ah, _yes_ , Your Majesty, _I_ have made an _extraordinary_ discovery!"

"Just tell her what my men found," Milton grumbled, too tired for Hobson's posturing.

" _It was a wholly collaborative effort!_ " Hobson snapped at the soldier before turning back to Victoria as pseudo-cheerful as ever. "As you know, the second prisoner is the alchemist and alleged 'witch', Mary Godwin; a rather malevolent woman by all accounts. We have discovered files on her experiments that are so grotesque, I—"

"Hobson, did you or did you not find a location she may currently be residing in?" Victoria said, cutting off his diatribe. Her patience was quickly draining. In its absence, she could feel anger swiftly rising to the surface.

"Well…I… _yes_ , Your Majesty."

"Excellent, you can tell us on the way down to the docks."

"To the docks, Ma'am?" Milton asked, hurrying to keep up with her as she turned and left the room.

"Yes. You said it yourself; we need to find them as soon as possible." She only hoped it would be that simple.

~ * ~

It was an oddly balmy morning only thirty-six hours later that they found themselves mooring at the docks of the Godwin Estate. According to Hobson's information, before Ms. Godwin had started making a name for herself in alchemy she had lived here with her parents. Magnificent, Hobson had called the grounds—Victoria thought that was putting it mildly, considering the estate took up an entire island of a small archipelago in Albion's southern-most sea. Even from a distance the manor house cut an impressive silhouette.

The grounds seemed almost idyllic compared to the chaos of Clockwork Island as they stepped onto the simple wooden dock. However, something about the land felt…muted. Not quite anchored in reality. Victoria had to force herself to not wrap her arms around her body.

"The estate's been abandoned for years, but there definitely seems to be signs of life here," Milton observed, pointing out the various crates stacked neatly beside the boathouse. Like Victoria, he seemed to be affected by the atmosphere, keeping his voice slightly lower than was necessary.

"Yes, but all those signs mean nothing if she's not _actually_ here and the new tenants are merely a group of _ruffians_ , hmm?" In contrast, Reaver didn't seem bothered. Slouching a bit, he looked as comfortable as if they were touring the grounds of his own estate. A flicker of disbelief flashed through her mind and she wondered how he could truly not feel how wrong this place felt. Against her will, her thoughts travelled back to the day, several years ago now, that she had followed him through Wraithmarsh. The tomb and the devils within. Glancing away, she decided it wasn't so odd after all. Unsettling feelings, it appeared, were something he was quite familiar with.

Milton bristled at Reaver's statement. "This place represents everything General Turner despises; old money, aristocracy, nepotism. If Godwin is hiding anywhere, it'll be here."

"How very astute of you to inform us, however—"

"This isn't the time," Victoria interrupted. "You two can spat this out later, I'm more worried about finding Ms. Godwin and quickly." With a scowl, she stepped off the dock and onto the sandy shore.

Milton followed and, after a beat, added, "I wonder if you and General Turner would find common ground; you're both revolutionaries."

"Then why does he want me dead?"

"Perhaps because you stopped being a rebel," Milton supplied very, very quietly. He seemed to almost doubt the answer and so Victoria didn't respond. It was a thought for another time.

Sand shifted to gravel under her feet as they began their trek up to the estate and Victoria tried in vain to peer through the trees lining the path ahead. If Milton's previous thoughts were right, Ms. Godwin wasn't going to be any more receptive to seeing her than Mr. Faraday had originally been. If there was going to be trouble, she wanted to be ready for it.

"Doesn't it seem a bit _obvious_ , though?" Victoria enquired, oblivious to Milton's struggles at keeping pace with her. "Coming back home, I mean. If she wanted to make certain no one would find her, then why come home?"

"Perhaps she assumed it would be too obvious?" Milton supplied, panting.

"Or," Reaver cut in, "she was well aware this would be the first place you looked. If Ernest was willing to pervert his creations in the hopes of killing you, there's no reason to expect Godwin won't do the same."

"Does anyone know _what_ , exactly, Mary Godwin was working on before Logan had her imprisoned?" Victoria paused, met with blank looks, and tried to ignore the trepidation building in her stomach. _Very well, then._ "Hopefully it was something… _friendly_ …and not murderous."

She purposefully ignored Reaver's answering snort of disbelief in favour of continuing on.

Their path wound its way up, twisting through gnarled tree trunks and around the edge of a cliff. She wanted to pretend they were just on a hike, going to check in on someone she'd never met, but she knew better. Even if she hadn't, there was just something…off about this island. When they'd gone to find Mr. Faraday, it had been easy to almost assume they were in some off-shoot of Bowerstone. But here? Not quite. An eerie silence had settled over the estate and not even birds seemed interested in breaking it. Walking under the trees, the shadows felt too deep. Too full of threats. Victoria felt the Crawler twitch in response to her thoughts, and forced back a shudder. No, now was not the time. _Focus on the quest_.

When they broke through the trees, they found themselves on what appeared to be a human-sized chessboard, but the pieces were…all wrong. Life-sized statues of balverines and hollow men occupied the back of the board while hobbes claimed the spaces for pawns. The opposite side of the board was empty.

Momentarily forgetting herself, Victoria crept closer to the pieces. The detail was astounding, and a little too realistic. The balverine in the King's place bore ragged scars and a torn ear while the one beside it had matted fur. Their gaze seemed to follow her as she drew closer.

"Oh, Victoria?" Reaver called out, startling her from her studies.

Heart thudding in her ears, she turned to him just long enough to wave him off before turning back to the creatures. Was it her imagination or did that hobbe just blink?

"They're only chess pieces, Your Majesty," he remarked; his patience apparently dwindling. "I assumed you wanted to find Godwin before sunset?"

"I don't think these are chess pieces," Victoria retorted.

"Whatever does it matter?"

"I'm afraid he's right, Ma'am," Milton supplied, seeming to regret the words even as he said them. "Whatever they are, isn't Mary a bigger priority?"

Milton got through were Reaver hadn't, and Victoria pulled herself away with a frown. _Fine. But when they try to eat us, I'm holding it against you both._

Together, they stepped off the board and onto a grassy path. Tall, immaculately-trimmed hedgerows lined the route and Victoria felt it was just another thing that didn't make sense. The estate was abandoned, so who was doing the gardening? Who had kept the dock in order? Who was tending the path? Exactly _how long_ had Mary Godwin been back home? If anything, the fact that Mr. Faraday and Ms. Godwin had re-established themselves so firmly at their previous places of residence made her doubt Milton's version of events more than she already had.

Not for the first time, she wished Walter hadn't been left in Bowerstone. It would have been nice to have someone trustworthy with her.

"Why on earth are all these pens empty?" Reaver enquired, seemingly disappointed.

The trail had led them past a series of winding, iron-fenced enclosures and Victoria was ashamed to say she hadn't been paying the least bit of attention to them. Milton had wandered over to the one opposite them, futilely attempting to peer through the bars at creatures that just weren't there. Victoria glanced at a tiny plaque as she passed it and, head tilted, asked of no one in particular, "What exactly is a calmer chameleon? I didn't realise chameleons were anything but calm."

"Whatever it is, it doesn't appear to have survived Godwin's absence," Reaver remarked.

"Maybe they're not dead. Maybe they just come and go as they please."

"And perhaps the topiary swan ate them."

 _There's a topiary swan?_ She attempted to rouse herself with the reminder that they were in the middle of something, but neither of the men seemed all that interested in hurrying now, either. _At this rate Ms Godwin will have seen us coming and will have gotten away…all because we're staring at nothing._ "Right, time to leave. Don't pout at me, Reaver; we have a job to do, don't we?"

Reaver huffed, but, for once, didn't argue as she led the way onwards.

The shrubbery twisted and turned until the path spontaneously opened up, spitting them out into a small garden.

"There's the main house," Milton remarked, rushing forward. He barely touched the gate barring their path when he abruptly jumped backwards.

"What's wrong?" Victoria called, hurrying over to him. "Electricity?"

"And something else. I…don't know what. I've never felt anything like that before."

Victoria frowned and tried to relax her mind, stretching her Will out like fingers. There _was_ something there. Something almost physical, but it bent slightly at her probing. Not enough for it to collapse, but enough to know it existed.

"Someone's warded it somehow," Victoria murmured. "But it's strange…." She stopped herself before she could say anything more, but that didn't stop her from being both perplexed and fascinated. Wards were rare…to a degree. A weak ward wasn't all that hard to have a Will-user or alchemist create, but a strong one like this? She hadn't felt a ward so strong since the last Old Kingdom ruin she'd come across. _Strange, though_ …it almost felt static-y. "I think she's tied it into whatever's generating a charge for the gate. We shut that down, we can get through."

"Wonderful, more mindless bumbling," Reaver said, absently cocking a hip. Victoria resisted the urge to flip him off.

"We should split up, then," Milton said, unslinging his rifle. At the looks of disbelief he earned from both of them, he added defensively, "This is a huge estate. If we stay together, we might be at this for the rest of the day. If we split up, we can cover all the more ground."

Victoria wanted to rebuke him, to point out all the ways this was a terrible idea. But…it wasn't. He was right. She sighed. "Fine. Split up, but don't take risks. We do this carefully and without putting ourselves in unnecessary danger. If you find something, or don't, come back to this spot and we go in together. Do you both understand?"

"Yes, Your Majesty," Milton bid. "I'll head back to the docks, check around the beach."

"Good, I'll see if there's a way out of this garden…something that might be useful," Victoria replied.

Reaver didn't respond, just tilted his head slightly.

Milton turned and began walking back the way they'd come. In turn, Victoria made her way over to a gap in the hedges she'd only barely noticed. Her boots crunched against the gravel, masking the skittering of leaves against the ground. Unfortunately, it also masked the sound of other people's footsteps and she was halfway down the path before she realised she was being followed.

With a heavy, exasperated sigh, Victoria turned around and crossed her arms. "We're supposed to be splitting up; that means you shouldn't be following me."

"Oh?" Reaver didn't even try to look guilty. "But, _ma chere_ , who then will protect you? It's not prudent to allow a queen to wander blindly into danger on her own…for the good of the kingdom and all that nonsense."

"How many times—in how many ways or languages—do I need to tell you to fuck off before you do so?" Fuming, she whirled around with the intention of storming off and leaving him to rot. The nerve of him. The insufferable nerve. It was getting exhausting to be angry with him all the time, but she couldn't just…let it go? Could she?

"Victoria," he began harshly, losing the flirtatious edge to his tone. "Victoria, it's been a _year_. It's _done_. Why are you insisting on continuing this argument?"

She didn't recall moving, just that she was abruptly before him, jabbing a finger at him. "I'm continuing it because I'm angry! Because _you hurt me_ and someone I care about and you have to live with that now. That doesn't just go away because you want it to!" Her breath hissed in sharply before adding: "You know what? I don't care. Do whatever you want. You always have. I will work with you for now, but do not assume I will continue to do so once Ms. Godwin and General Turner are no longer at large. And I am _done_ discussing this right now. We have much more important things to worry about than _you_."

Victoria turned away from him once more and resumed her trek down the path. Reaver didn't respond. However, a few seconds later, she became aware of the soft tread of his steps following hers. She was still angry—emotions simmering just beneath the surface—but she felt oddly calm. Resigned but pleasant. She could survive a couple hours in his presence. She could handle it.

The path finally reached its end and they came out into a small cemetery. _Fitting_ , Victoria thought dryly. They picked their way through overgrown weeds and cracked headstones, but the only way either of them could discern led forward was through a wrought iron gate and into what looked like a built on addition of the graveyard. They didn't even need to discuss it. Instead, they both made for the gate. It swung open easily at Victoria's touch. _Perhaps Ms. Godwin has whatever's blocking the way hidden back here?_

They'd barely taken two steps into this section of the graveyard, however, before wisps formed, diving into the ground in a shower of rubble. Victoria jolted backwards, reaching instinctively for the handles of her knives. A bony hand clawed its way out of the ground, flesh clinging to the limb in haggard scraps. The rest of the corpse slowly followed, more rising to join it.

"Do try not to get grave muck on your clothes, will you? It's unbecoming," Reaver called, teasingly light in tone as he raised and cocked the Dragonstomper.

Victoria rolled her eyes. "Oh dear, is that a wrinkle I spy on your forehead?"

Reaver's indignant gasp of horror was drowned out by the groaning of old bones and angry spirits. Victoria turned her focus to the hollow men, both alarmed and confused as to why they were here. Did the island have some sort of secret history that hadn't made it into Hobson's report? _No time to worry about it now_. A giant monstrosity of bone and mouldering flesh stumbled towards her, dragging an equally large double-headed axe behind it. It slowly raised the axe, creaking violently. Victoria darted out of the way as the axe reached the top of its arc, far out of reach as it thudded into the ground. Daggers drawn, she drove one into the hollow man's knee, slamming the pommel of the other into the flesh just below her previous strike. The crunch of breaking bone was a satisfying rapport and—

and she ducked, barely avoiding the hollow man's next strike as it bellowed in rage. The cobwebs covering its ribcage flapped pitifully with the movement. The repetitive bang of gunshots was almost soothing in its familiarity and helped her focus more than it probably should have. A smaller hollow man had shambled up to her and she twisted behind it, kicking it toward the larger creature. The giant hollow man crushed its fellow without hesitation.

She had no idea how many other hollow men there were. There could have been five, there could have been fifty. However, if she didn't stop this one soon, she probably would never find out. Dodging another blow, she darted forward, attempting to crush the bones in its arms. The attempt was fruitless. She cursed under her breath, realising she needed help.

"Reaver!" she shouted, panting. Her limbs felt strained and almost tingly as she rolled out of the way once more. Oblivious to the leaves and twigs clinging to her hair and clothes, she hopped to her feet. "Shoot it!"

He obliged, firing off a volley into the hollow man's knees. The bone shattered, held together now with naught but splinters of bone and threads of Will. Grunting in exertion, Victoria threw herself at the hollow man. It teetered violently before falling backwards. Shattering into empty bones on impact with the ground. Victoria forced a deep breath. Pulling herself to her feet, she looked up just in time to see Reaver, almost negligently, blast the last hollow man's head into dust. Turning away from him, she carefully sheathed her blades and tried to calm her breathing.

Victoria stared down at the splintered bones scattering the ground, half-covering a carved sigil she hadn't noticed before. The silence after a battle always seemed painfully loud, but this time she didn't notice. Her thoughts were too chaotic. Hollow men were a staple of most tombs, ancient ruins, and old battlefields. Something about places where tragedy had struck made the veil between worlds too thin and the spirits, lost and angry, were able to cross with ease. So why were they here? She looked up at Reaver, temporarily put aside her anger, and said, "Where did they come from? How did she get hollow men here?"

"Perhaps Godwin wasn't _just_ working on strengthening her ability in alchemy."

"…you suspect necromancy? _Avo_ , Reaver, if she's a Will-user—"

" _That_ is highly unlikely," he replied. But from the way his brow creased at the thought, it was clearly something that concerned him.

"But if she is…it's not going to be possible to contain her easily." No, there would be battle and bloodshed and she was well aware that the odds would be against her. She shook her head. "How the hell did Logan get her taken into custody in the first place?"

"With luck we can ask her…before she attempts to take our heads off."

They turned away from the sigil on the ground and the breath-taking view of the nearby islands—and the ruins they contained—and descended deeper into the graveyard. The path sloped dramatically and the stones beneath their feet were weather-worn to a dangerous smoothness. Mushrooms and grass were fighting for dominance at the edges of the path. The roots of oak trees had run out of room to spread in the ground and had broken free of the soil, spreading across the stone like a kraken's tentacles. There was a musty, damp smell to the air that wasn't entirely unpleasant as they walked.

Helping Victoria over a particularly large moss-covered root, Reaver added, "Say she is a Will-user…you can… _negate that_ or something can't you?"

"That's not really how Will works, Reaver."

"Oh?"

"I—you can't _really_ want a lesson on magical theory," Victoria said, frowning at him in disbelief.

"Humour me, Your Majesty."

"…fine." The path slowly began to open up, ferns growing along the edges reaching out to brush against them as they passed. "Will is…energy, I suppose. There's theories about where it comes from—that it comes from the Void, that living things generate it, that it's created by souls, that _something_ out there is making it—but none of those theories really matter. It's energy. However, it can't…fuel itself? See, when I do this—" she summoned a small fireball into her palm— "I'm pushing my energy into it; since I don't want the spell to take on more power, I'm also taking back what I've put in. If I wanted it to be more powerful, I would keep adding to it. Here's the problem; say you have a powerful spell. If you're the creator, you have two options for how to get rid of it: either direct it to a target and let it loose or slowly take back the energy you've put into it…which can be painful. If you're the recipient of the spell, you can either attempt to shield yourself—which will only direct the Will _around_ you but won't stop it—or you can get out of the way. Will cannot be destroyed, disrupted, blocked, _or_ negated…except by someone with immense talent."

The trail abruptly opened to their left, a steep cliff residing where trees once had. They were bathed in late morning sunlight. A cluster of headstones sat at the base of a gnarled, twisted tree that looked as though it would topple into the sea in a strong wind. Standing there, with the breeze caressing her skin and the crash of waves in her ears, Victoria was struck by the thought that the sea was actually very beautiful. She could almost understand the appeal of it. The desire to spend ages living near the water or sailing over its depths. _Careful, you don't want to risk siren-hood, do you?_ She nearly laughed.

"You are, though."

Realizing she'd stopped walking, Victoria turned to find Reaver staring at her and tried to pull her thoughts back together.

Apparently taking her silence for confusion, he added, "A Will-user with immense talent, that is. I would think—"

"As I said, it's not that simple," she said, pulling herself away from the cliff and back onto the path. "Even if, by some miracle, I was more powerful than her, I would still have to figure out a way to attune myself to her Will and turn it against her. I've never done that before—never had an opportunity or need to do so. I just hope she's not a Will-user."

The path was fairly straightforward. No elaborate twists and turns, just a gentle arc that followed the edge of the island. The biggest hindrance to their travel was the occasional boulder or fallen branch that they had to side step before carrying on. Time slipped away faster than Victoria had anticipated and, carefully stepping down a hill, she realised abruptly that it was after noon. The sun was already beginning to lazily make its way to the horizon. _Time feels strange here. Like it doesn't exist properly_. But there was nothing she could do about it either way.

A stream trickled in front of them, running off the cliff with abandon; a foot bridge had been built over it, but it wasn't doing much good. Rivulets of water had separated from the stream, turning the soil around it into a mushy, muddy mess. There was a gate just beyond the bridge, though, and it felt as strongly warded as the first they'd encountered.

"We must be getting close," Victoria decided, her muddy footsteps smacking almost annoyingly against the bridge's stone.

"Unfortunately, the closer we get, the worse I'm sure things will become," Reaver added, sounding far too excited at the prospect for his words to be taken seriously.

The bridge deposited them into a small clearing. A dilapidated shed and some heavy-duty industrial equipment sat at the far end. If almost felt like a trap, but they made their way through with care—or…Victoria made her way through with care whilst Reaver strolled along as though they were in a park.

Looking around at the various crates and machinery bits, Victoria said, "You like to prod things incessantly, do you think you can work that machine? It might be what's locking the gates."

"I _could_ be convinced to make an attempt." When she did nothing more than scowl at him, he huffed, rolled his eyes, and began fiddling with the various knobs and levers.

She stood over him, waiting. When it became apparent that this wasn't going to be a five minute job, she took to wandering the clearing. There wasn't much to find; the crates were either bolted shut or empty. She carefully worked the door of the shed open and stepped inside. Light barely filtered through the grimy windows and the air was thick with dust. It smelled like mould and old paint, but Victoria could safely say she'd smelled worse in her lifetime. Cobwebs collected in the corners like old fabric. There wasn't much to look at. A couple crates and a rickety table…and a thin journal sitting atop the table.

Intrigued, she picked up the journal and took a seat atop the nearest crate, ignoring the protests of angry gobbits calling the space behind the crates home. She flipped through the pages carefully, but quickly discovered it was going to be difficult to read no matter how carefully she perused the tome. There were no words within, just page after page of alchemical equations. Victoria had never practiced alchemy—the extent of her cooking ability was tea and things that didn't require heat and she'd never had the desire to test that ability by adding chemicals and poisonous herbs to the mix; it seemed like a really poor decision. Still, she found the equations fascinating…even if she barely understood them. Was this one of Ms. Godwin's journals? Something she was working on? If so, perhaps it would be of use.

The sky was bleeding orange and scarlet when she finally heard Reaver let out a sound of triumph. She slipped the journal into her pocket and left the shed. He'd…gone a bit far, in her opinion. Stripped away bits of the machine's exterior to expose a mess of wires and rusting components. But it had stopped running, so she couldn't condemn his effectiveness.

"I don't feel the ward any longer," Victoria informed him as he pulled himself to his feet. "I suppose that means we can get through the gate now."

"It will have been for nothing if Godwin isn't actually _here_."

"Doesn't matter. We won't know unless we check."

The grounds felt more sinister now, like something was waiting for them. As they passed through the gate and onto a cramped, tree-lined trail, Victoria was certain she felt eyes on her. That she could hear something moving in the trees. There was never anything there. Against her better judgment, she kept slightly closer to Reaver, though she knew that it would mean nothing if they were attacked. It would just mean she needed to move away from him again before either of them could fight, but that didn't change that the action was… _comforting_.

Under the trees' canopy it was difficult to see. Night could have fallen and Victoria would have been none the wiser. As a precaution, she took to resting her hands on the handles of her knives. That was what saved her.

Something large and heavy dropped down from the tree beside her with a _fwhump_ , and, acting on instinct, she lashed out with her blades. Blood spurted forth, hot and wet on her hands, and the beast fell to the ground. Dead. She looked up to find dozens of yellow-orange eyes glittering from all around them. _Balverines…_.

"Reaver, run!" Tugging at him with her free hand, she darted forward; struggling to sheath her blade and draw her pistol.

He didn't need to be told twice.

Snarls and heavy breaths followed them down the trail. Occasionally they would get a shot or two off and a balverine would whimper in pain, but it wasn't making any difference. There were too many monsters and not enough room to fight them.

She was thrown to the ground as a balverine dropped onto her. The air vanished from her lungs and she tried to lean away, but there was nowhere to go. Inches from her face, it roared, unleashing spittle and a burst of foul breath. Groaning, Victoria struggled to get free and bring up her pistol. Before she could line up a shot, her side erupted in agony. Her arm dropped involuntarily.

A series of shots rang out and the balverine atop her roared once more before jumping away. Hands grabbed at her shoulders, helping her to her feet. The world immediately blurred and tilted. She stumbled, nearly falling down again. He caught ahold of her, wrapping his free arm around her torso and forced her to keep moving. Pain seared through her side again, burning. A burning that seared through her veins.

"Oh, fuck," she groaned, stumbling along. "Don't let them scratch you."

"What are you blabbering about?"

"Poison…they're poison."

He swore. "We aren't going to get very far like this. Can you run?"

Though wary to forgo his support, she nodded. He released her. She stumbled slightly and then ran, trying to ignore the pain.

They left the path and burst back into the garden, on the opposite side of the gate that had first barred them. The balverines did not appear to follow them. If either of them had been hoping for Milton to be waiting for them, they were to be disappointed. The garden was as empty as ever. But the path to the manor was clear and Reaver tried to pull her toward it.

"The Commander—" she began, words slurring together.

" _Sod_ him! He's a bellend, anyway."

She let him lead her up the hill, stumbling on the loose stones. Weakness flooding her limbs and making her head swim. She lost traction on the slope and fell. This time she couldn't get up. He tried to pull her to her feet, but she couldn't keep her balance. The world was growing fuzzy. From somewhere nearby a piercing howl rang out, shattering the silence.

"Victoria, you _need_ to get up."

She tried to shake her head, but the movement came out minute. Mouth dry, unable to form words. Something in her head was screaming at her, demanding she get up and get out of there. Cursing and raging at her. But the world was spinning like a top—like a dinghy lost in a storm.

Far, far away, she heard Reaver swear. " _Damn you_ , if we _die_ over an Avo-forsaken _scratch_ , I _will_ hold this against you."

The ground fell away as he lifted her, bracing her against him. The balverines were getting closer; she could hear their howls and yips, far too close for her liking. She tried to lift her head from his shoulder. He was shooting still, but there was clearly no way he was going to be able to get rid of the balverines and get them to cover. If only she could light a fire. Use her Will. But she was…so tired. Fading.

A voice from everywhere and nowhere scoffed. _I do this not for_ you _, child_ , it snapped. _This is not charity; the children_ will _feast_.

She felt a jolt of surprise reverberate through Reaver's chest and forced her eyes open. Shadows were spreading, disentangling from the ground. He faltered. And then they were moving again. Into darkness. The movement hurt her head and she closed her eyes once more. Sleep…all she wanted was to sleep. She couldn't even feel the burning in her side anymore.

A bang crashed through her head, ringing in her ears. Someone was calling her name, laying her down carefully. She couldn't move.

And everything stopped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The couple that fights monsters together...is probably going to die together, let's just be honest here.
> 
> (Gobbits are little rat-fae that never made it past concept art, but were too adorable for me to not put in. Little rats with dragonfly wings and toothpick spears? Adorable.)


	7. Dead End

_Rain pattered gently against the windows, but inside the parlour it was warm. Biscuits and pastries sat out on decorative plates—more than enough sweets for just the two of them. They were taking tea inside this morning; a necessity due to the rain. She didn't really mind, though. The small room was cosy and pleasant and it was something she'd desperately missed as of late. She carefully stirred her tea and brought the cup to her lips. Hot and sweet._

_"You appear to be adjusting to the responsibility well enough," Logan observed. He was reading, attempting to look focused and dignified. It didn't work. He merely looked tired and vaguely annoyed._

_Victoria carefully set down her cup. "Does it look that way? I feel like I'm struggling not to drown most days. How did you do it?"_

_He gave her a sardonic smile. "I didn't. You are aware of that as much as I am, sister. They called me a tyrant and sent you to dethrone me."_

_"_ Logan _…you know that's not what I meant."_

_They fell silent—Victoria returning to her tea as Logan returned to his book. The flowers filling the fireplace looked bright and cheerful against the pale walls and the entire room smelled sweet with their fragrance. Outside, in the gardens, the world was obscured by a veil of mist. Everything about this room felt familiar and comfortable; though…the more she tried to think on it, she couldn't remember having ever been here before._

_Taking a deep breath, she finally murmured, "It's frustrating at times. They push me and push me…sometimes I think they want me to turn against them. To make things horrible, because they just don't know when to stop."_

_"And still you love them, regardless of what they may do."_

_She stared at him, searching for mockery or spite and finding nothing but a distant pain. "So much. I think I understand now why you did what you did. Looking at Albion, I…there is_ nothing _I wouldn't do to protect them. I would die, kill, to preserve them."_

_Logan's expression softened as though he didn't know how to take this. After a moment he replied: "No matter what you do, it will always be thankless."_

_"I know. But I don't need their thanks. That's not why I help."_

_They were silent once more. The rain had slowed, no longer audible but for the occasional tap. The doors to the gardens were open, though she couldn't say they had been a moment ago. Curious, she set her cup down and rose to her feet. The train of her gown whispered against the plush carpets as she made her way to the doors. Beyond them was a pale world; the mist unmoving, everything featureless._

_"Victoria?" He waited until she turned to look at him before offering, "You_ will _do better than I have."_

_She smiled. "I'll be back in a moment."_

_As she crossed the threshold into the gardens she heard him say: "No, you won't."_

_Confused, she turned back to ask what he meant and found the room was gone. She was surrounded by nothing but a haze._

_"Hello?" she called out. A buzzing like hundreds of whispering voices reached her ears, but she couldn't understand any of them. She started walking, utterly lost. Pale bursts of colour littered the ground, but, otherwise, there was nothing._

_And then, in the midst of all that nothingness, she heard it: a slow, thoughtful voice attempting to break through the whispers. She strained her ears but all she heard was "Black?" echoing through the abyss._

_"I can't hear you!" she called._

_"…of Black?"_

_Was someone else here? Wandering this place? She started forward and almost immediately stopped. Where was she supposed to look? Was there even anywhere to hide in so much nothingness? With a sigh, she turned back the way she came. A shadow reared up, lunging for her. Surrounding her, suffocating her in the darkness. She had to fight—_

Victoria awoke abruptly, immediately sitting up. She was on the floor of a dark, dusty room. The only light came from a candle on a nearby…crate? Where was she? She remembered trees…balverines…running…and then, nothing. How had she gotten here?

_We live to endure once more_ , the Crawler grumbled, not at all sounding pleased.

_We do_. She reached down to feel her side. The flesh was still tender, sensitive to pressure, but it was mostly healed. _Did I take a potion…?_

"Finally awake, I see," a dry voice cut in sounding no more pleased than the Crawler had.

Victoria turned to find Reaver seated just out of range of the candlelight, leaning his head back against the chipped plaster wall. His long limbs sprawled out as though he were a child in time out. She stared at him a long moment, trying to find her voice.

"I…did you save me?" she blurted out, internally cringing. _Brilliant, yeah_.

"And found us a _charming_ hovel to recuperate in. Isn't it _lovely?_ "

"At least it's safe from balverines…for now." She slowly dragged herself to her feet and dusted off her trousers. The room was a cellar, that much she could ascertain. Barrels, bottles, and sacks sat everywhere and the air was heavy with the scent of dust and soured wine. She was fairly certain the mushrooms clinging to one of the walls _weren't_ supposed to be there, but she wasn't about to bring that up. "Are we…erm…."

"In Mary Godwin's cellar? I certainly hope so, for I don't know where else we might be."

She nodded absently. It almost felt like she _should_ say something. Thank him, perhaps, for not leaving her to die. Or for getting them into the manor. At the same time, she didn't want him to assume her gratitude meant her forgiveness. Just because he had been unprecedentedly kind did not mean she had to absolve him of his other sins. Staring at a spider web, she awkwardly cleared her throat and muttered, "We should continue with the quest."

Reaver didn't immediately react, but he slowly got to his feet and together they found the cellar's exit.

Gas lamps lined the hall, filling the corridor with dim light. Victoria's gut clenched. Someone knew they were here, alright. Were they waiting for them? Preparing to attack? They passed through a boiler room—the furnaces silent and cold—and up the tiled stairs.

"How are you planning to handle Godwin? I don't think knocking her down and talking to her is going to work this time."

The coldness of his tone gave her pause and Victoria frowned. "I don't know. I'll have to see what she has hiding here first."

They entered a long-disused dining room. Cobwebs stretched from the broken crystal chandelier like gauzy banners. Dirty plates and empty bottles lay on every surface. Victoria felt herself cringe—it smelled like rot and decay. Dead things and dust. The floorboards creaked with every step. The walls of the next hallway were lined with portraits of the former estate owners, all of them strange and macabre. An elderly woman with antlers sat across from a middle-aged man with decidedly rabbit-like features. At the end of the hall sat the most ordinary looking of the group; a dark haired, tattooed woman with a sly smile. _Is that Mary?_ she wondered, pausing to look at it.

_She fades like butterflies in the cold_. The words were accompanied by the mental image of the woman shattering, exploding into a cloud of butterflies that promptly died.

_I…really didn't need to think about that right now, thank you_ , she replied.

Victoria pushed open the doors to the next room and immediately froze. The floor was covered with piles of sleeping hobbes. It looked like they'd been having a party. Paper streamers and confetti blanketed everything, clinging to spider webs and giving the appearance of being frozen in mid-air. All the furniture had either been destroyed or overturned. Glasses and bottles lay shattered or on their sides, contents spilling over the floor. The overwhelming stench of sweat and cheap, stale beer was almost worse than the decay of the rest of the house.

"That's a lot of hobbes," Victoria whispered. Hobbes hadn't seemed threatening in…a very long time, to be quite honest. They were small and fast, but they were more dangerous when they attacked someone unprepared. "It'll waste a lot of time fighting them."

"Why do we have to fight them? They're drunk, unconscious. I doubt much will wake them."

She half-shrugged. "If you think we can risk it, fine. I'll follow you."

Reaver tsked and slunk forward, winding his way between the sleeping piles with ease. A few hobbes had sprawled into the path, making it impossible to get through without stepping on them and Victoria drove her knives into each of their skulls. With bated breath and a pounding heart, they finally reached the door out.

Reaver had barely put his hand on the doorknob when a loud sound rang out. It took Victoria a moment to realise that someone was counting.

" _Each time you touch my gills, it gives me fishy chills. And when you touch my scales, my little fishy heart fails_ ," a man was singing in an over-done falsetto.

Confused, they both exchanged disbelieving looks as the song continued. Victoria turned her gaze up and scowled. "Oh, you _must_ be joking."

A trout was mounted above the door, flapping its tail and moving its head, and that, she realised, was where the horrible singing was coming from.

"We have bigger concerns than a fish," Reaver warned.

Victoria looked down to find the hobbes that were still living were waking up, stumbling around and grumbling. At the sight of the intruders, one of them began shrieking gibberish to its companions and soon they were all shrieking and running towards them. _Right, new plan. Kill them all_.

A hobbe had leapt off one of the overturned couches, mostly-empty bottle raised like a club as it flew through the air, and, not a moment later, Reaver had shot it out of the air. Victoria had started to charge a spell and felt a burst of pain sear through her veins as she cut power to it. _Can't use fire; there's enough liquor here to set the house ablaze_. A pair of hobbes were running at her, dinner forks held aloft like spears. Victoria kicked at a table leg, breaking it off, and batted both hobbes across the room as if they were toys. _Three down, thirty to go_.

She gathered her Will once more, feeling the air around her grow cold and crisp. Pushing towards the hobbes running towards her, a wave of frost burst from her hands, cascading over the small creatures. Within seconds, they were frozen solid. A bullet each from Reaver sent them exploding into bits of icy flesh and bone. Victoria hopped away from an attempt to hit her in the knees with a nailed piece of wood, flinging a burst of frost at the ground beneath the hobbe. It flew upwards a short distance and another burst of frost froze it solid. A small group of larger hobbes had been creeping forward, pots and strainers on their heads like helmets. The frost wasn't working so well against them and, she quickly realised, was making the floor hard to manoeuvre on. She summoned a cloud of spectral blades instead, unleashing them upon the hobbes as she drew her knives. Soon enough, she was burying her blades in the final hobbe's skull. The battle couldn't have lasted more than five minutes.

Victoria tugged her knife free and wiped it on the hobbe's clothing.

"This thing is ghastly," she heard Reaver complain and she looked up to find him staring up at the now silent trout. "I almost want it for myself."

She repressed a snort, sheathing her knife, and hurried past him. "Come on, we're getting close."

The words had barely left her lips—and she had barely crossed the threshold into the next room—when the doors slammed shut behind her. She tried to open them, but the lock stuck fast. From the other side of the door, she heard Reaver pound on the door. A moment later she could hear him messing with the lock.

"I believe I can get it open!" he called.

She sighed, pressing against the door. It felt…unprecedentedly sturdy. Reinforced, then? It seemed likely. _Damn_ , she thought, cursing their foolishness for allowing them to get caught in a trap. She should have known…should have been prepared. Sighing once more, she replied, "No, I've _seen_ you pick locks before."

"...what's _that_ meant to mean?"

The memory of him spending an hour trying to get one of his own lockboxes open after he'd accidentally dropped the key into a drain—a drain that flowed directly into the Bower River—immediately came to mind. He'd spent the entire time cursing and snapping that _he knew what he was doing, thank you very much_ and she had tried desperately not to dissolve into giggles. Choking back a laugh, she called back: "Nothing!"

"I can pick locks perfectly well, Victoria, thank you very much!" he snapped defensively.

This time she couldn't help herself and a snicker forced its way out. Trying to compose herself, she said, "Listen to me: I need you to go find Milton. He's probably still wandering about out there and he might have encountered the balverines. I don't like it, but we need him alive. I'll go on and find Ms. Godwin. Meet me at the docks."

"That's a terrible plan. You're likely to be outnumbered and you're still injured."

"I'll manage. I always do. I'll see you both at the docks soon."

She didn't wait for him to refute her and plunged deeper into the room. The floor was earthen and coffins were piled around the edges of the room. She almost expected hollow men to burst out of the ground at any moment. When no attacks were forthcoming, she crept deeper into the house. Filth lay piled at the edges of the halls; the paintings on the walls were heavily caked with grime. Laboratory equipment greeted her in several rooms. _This place feels like a crypt_.

_What will you do about the witch? The thief is correct. You are not fit to fight her._

"That's where you come in," she replied aloud, if only to hear something in the dead silence.

_Why would we assist you?_

"You already have, haven't you? I…it's blurry, but I remember to a degree. You did _something_. That means you can do it again. Like it or not, no matter how much you fight me, you need me to live."

_No_.

"Is that your final answer?"

_You mistake our ability_.

She stopped walking, realisation crashing against her like waves against a cliff. _You…you're weak. Drained_. She'd had no idea. Absolutely none that the Crawler had been so powerless.

_Do not_ —

_You are! Let me guess, you've been using the backwash of my Will to replenish your power enough to attack me._

_No_ , it replied bitterly. _Your magic is wasted on us._

_And if I linked our powers?_

It stayed silent, contemplative. Victoria started walking again. She knew it was unlikely she would ever do so, but knowing if it was an option appealed to her…even if it was only a last resort. A resort she hoped Reaver would shoot her after if she had to use it.

_We would not be stopped_ , it finally replied as she started down a cramped staircase.

The rush those words triggered was odd and she was uncertain whether it was excitement or dread…or even her own emotions. She shook it off, trying to pull herself back together. Ms. Godwin was somewhere up ahead. She needed to be prepared.

The hallway opened up to an underground cavern. In the dim light it was hard to see, but it had been sectioned off into small platforms. Stalactites and stalagmites fought for space alongside scientific equipment and man-sized tanks. Victoria crept up to the nearest one, trying to avoid the puddles of mystery liquid on the ground.

The brass bars wrapping around the tank had been rent open, glass shattered. Whatever had been inside was long gone. Tracing the scratches gouged deeply into the metal, she wondered if the poison balverines had come from here. Had something drawn them from here and sent them to the generator? Had Ms. Godwin instructed them to attack or had they done so of their own free will? She took a deep breath and slipped onwards. More empty tanks met her gaze and all the equipment was silent. Or…most of it. Far ahead, she heard the faint hum of electricity and the clunks and clatters of running machinery.

Victoria broke into a run, not bothering to hide her presence. She met no resistance and only slowed as she mounted a new set of stairs. She'd just crested the penultimate staircase when the last section of the laboratory was revealed to her. Amidst the equipment, a balverine, hollow man, and hobbe were all strapped into shock chairs. Victoria couldn't tell if they were alive or not. A shabbily dressed dark-haired woman stood beside a workstation, raising a bottle to her lips with a grimace.

"Ms. Godwin, wait!" Victoria shouted.

Too late. Godwin had downed the bottle's contents. It slipped from her fingers, smashing on the floor. Godwin followed it. And then the screaming started. Screaming as though she were being tortured—as though her skin were being burned and flayed. And, as she screamed, she changed. Skin greying and ears lengthening like a hobbes before fading to normal. Long, wiry balverine-like hair sprouting in patches and then receding. Muscles shrinking, vanishing until her skin clung tightly to her bones before the process reversed.

Victoria stood there in horror. She didn't know what to do. Would a health potion help or would it clash with whatever Ms. Godwin had taken? What could she do to make it stop? In the end, there was nothing to do but stay and wait until the screaming stopped.

~ * ~

There were no words for the expressions Reaver and Milton both wore when, the sun beginning to rise red over the sea, she finally re-joined them at the docks. Both of them looked unharmed, but Milton seemed blank with disbelief and Reaver had gone cold once more. Victoria refused to let either of them assist her. She'd carried Godwin's unconscious body back through the manor and gardens. Nothing had attacked them, though she'd felt eyes on her all the while. Milton had asked what she planned to do next, but all she'd been able to say was that Ms. Godwin deserved a chance to defend her actions. She had no idea if he approved or not, but she didn't care; she'd continued on and found a place for Ms. Godwin to rest for the journey.

Now, with nothing left to do, Victoria found herself standing on deck—head in her hands and exhaustion in her limbs. Sleep…sleep sounded so _good_. But she also needed to get her thoughts in order. Needed to prepare for the questions that would come. But what could she do? Was there even a point to defending against questions that weren't going to change her opinion anyway?

She looked up to find Reaver leaning against the safety rail, frowning like she'd just committed a serious breach of decorum. Ignoring her tired stare, he declared, "We need to talk."

"I _really_ don't think we _do_."

He ignored her proclamation. "Are you really intending to just…let them go?"

Though she knew it would eventually be asked, Victoria hadn't expected the question to come so soon. She frowned, staring out over the waves, and wished he hadn't asked. She bit back a sigh. Perhaps if she ignored him, he'd go away. Give her some time to think. To formulate a strong, convincing argument for when the rest of the court challenged her for the decision.

" _Victoria_ ," Reaver huffed, taking hold of her chin and forcing her to look at him. "We may not see eye to eye on how to rule your country, _ma petite reine_ , but they _are_ dangerous. They _have_ attempted to kill you. Perhaps I can, to a degree, understand sparing Ernest, but Godwin? Pray tell, are you going to do the same for Turner? Are you just going to give him a slap on the wrist and tell him not to do it again and then let him go? You seem to be underestimating the amount of risk you're dealing with right now."

She bristled, feeling her Will pulse in response. How dare he, after everything he had put her through, lecture her on the dangers of other people. She was aware that keeping Mr. Faraday and Ms. Godwin alive didn't come without risk, but that was the entire reason she wanted to speak with them when they were in a clearer state of mind. If a deal could be struck…or if she could make them see that she wasn't her brother, then she didn't want to pass up that opportunity. She was aware Turner was going to be another thing entirely. His mind was set and he probably wouldn't want to listen to her, but that didn't mean she wouldn't try to help him understand. She had to try, because the opposite was tyranny. But Reaver? No, he had no right to question her motives. He'd given up that right a long time ago. She slapped away his hand, scowling. "Why do I owe you answers when you never give me any yourself? If Professor Faraday and Ms. Godwin are _so dangerous_ , then what does that make you?"

" _Me?_ "

"Yes, _you_ , Reaver." Victoria straightened up, unflinchingly meeting his eyes. "You want to talk about dangers to me, but they've only transgressed once. So what of _you?_ How many times have _you_ threatened civilians or people who work with me? How many times have you and your _friends_ opposed my attempts to help people?" She stepped closer, repressing the urge to shove him. "While we're on the subject of things that are a danger to me, why don't we discuss how you helped a warlord temporarily gain power because it was amusing? Or, better yet, let's talk about Elizabeth!"

He scoffed, momentarily glancing away from her as he frustratedly rolled his shoulders. "I thought we agreed we _weren't_ going to discuss Elizabeth."

" _No_ ," she snapped, jabbing a finger at him. " _You_ decided we weren't going to talk about her, _I_ was just _there_. Which is another issue entirely! You act like you _care_ —like you have some stake in my life, but you _don't_. The only person you care about is yourself. Me, my cousin, my country, we're just background details in the play you _think_ your life is! But we're not. You might treat this like it's not real, but _it is_. So the next time you think you have some sort of high ground to order me around, you might want to keep in mind that the only threat I've had to constantly face these last two years came almost exclusively from you! If you want to start questioning why someone is being granted clemency for their sins, then maybe you should start by asking why I let you walk free despite yours."

Reaver's lips had curled into an unpleasant grimace, as though he'd been force to swallow something bitter. He tsked, trying and failing to appear dismissive, and replied, " _Please_ , Your Majesty, we both know you only keep me near because you _want_ me."

_Oh_. Why did that hurt? He'd insinuated the same thing before they left Bowerstone, but she'd been too distracted to think on it. Now, however, it almost felt like he'd slapped her. They were close enough that she could feel his breath on her cheek. And it suddenly struck home that he was right. _Oh, Avo, he's right_. Knowing that wasn't supposed to hurt, was it? She couldn't name the emotion ripping into her heart, and she quickly averted her gaze. She felt…odd. Emotions and memories clashing with logic and reason. She had the sudden, inexplicable desire to run her fingers through his hair.

"You're right," she finally said, throat tight and uncomfortable. "I _do_ want you…"

She leaned in, pressing her lips to his before he could reply. She could feel his surprise in the hesitancy with which he responded, light and gentle like he wasn't certain this was happening. And her anger wasn't gone, just simmering under a crushing wave of something she didn't understand. She _wanted_ to understand, to fall into him and drown in answers, but there was none. And she pulled away feeling unsatisfied and… _it still hurt_.

"…but I don't _need_ you," she finished, unsure if she was trying to convince herself or him.

Reaver flinched as though she'd slapped him. Unfortunately for her, he recovered quickly…and whatever might have happened in that moment was lost. "Regardless of whether or not you _need_ me, that changes nothing. They _are_ dangerous. And you want to…what? Reintegrate them into society? And what happens, _your majesty_ , when they start yet another coup against you? What happens when you wake up one morning to a gun against your head and a revolutionary that will hear none of your promises of change?"

She stared at him a long moment; shame had stolen her voice but anger was demanding her to speak. Even if it was only to keep the lump in her throat from becoming embarrassing tears. "Do you know what I think, Reaver? I think you _want_ everyone to be evil. I think you _want_ everyone to be corrupt and without morals. I think that's what _you_ need. But the fact of the matter is it's just _you_. I don't know what the world has done to you to make you like this, but _you allowed it to happen_. You took everything and, instead of learning from it, you let it change you and turn you into something twisted. It was no one's fault but your own. People make their own fate. And Professor Faraday and Ms. Godwin? They still have a choice. _I_ still have a choice. Judge us all as you will, but the only person you're angry at is yourself."

She turned away, trying to force herself to calm down. But, as she ducked below deck, she couldn't decide what was worse her anger or her pity as he murmured, almost too low for her to hear, " _Lies._ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to say: I know I'm not always the best at saying it, but thank you to everyone who has supported this series. You are literally the reason I keep working on it. Seeing you enjoy it and your reactions...it's the highlight of my week and I just want to make sure you know how much it means to me. Thank you again.
> 
> Additional thanks to misunfortunatehero for letting me borrow Elizabeth for a teeny bit. ^^ (Hopefully she'll be back to make a full cameo one day.) And you should definitely, 100%, go check out her fic when it's up.


	8. Noise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys. ^^ Usually I put these at the end so you can skip them if you want, but I wanted to say something before you get started: the following chapter might be a little bit of a mess. I read over this chapter again and looked at the first scene (900 words, basically resolving everything so we'd have a clear shot to finale) and I suddenly couldn't stand it? It was too neatly and cleanly wrapped up to the point where I wasn't sure it was believable. And it never addressed the actual problems. So I...kinda rewrote the entire scene overnight...and...quadrupled the word count. >_> I usually never do that, but I feel like this version is much better, even if there is probably a lot of errors because it's not gone through as much editing as the rest of DoV. My apologies in advance. ^^

She couldn't sleep. Staring up at the worn wooden ceiling of her cabin, she found no rest. Her thoughts had fallen around her like shards of broken glass. Hopelessly broken. Cutting with every attempt at moving on. _What gives him the right_ , she kept asking herself, _to say such things to me?_ She rolled onto her side, attempting to find a more comfortable position in her cot and only succeeding in tangling herself further in the sheets. _Where does he get off acting as though he's_ ever _been in the right?_

Their argument kept replaying through her head. Over and over, until the tiniest details made her feel sick. The look on his face when she'd said she didn't need him was seared onto her eyelids. She couldn't get away from it.

_Child_ , the Crawler grumbled, _we have not existed countless millennia to listen to your inane prattling_.

_Then go to sleep_ , Victoria snapped, shoving a mental barrier between them to further isolate the Crawler from her thoughts. With a frustrated sigh, she rolled onto her opposite side. Her pillow was damp beneath her cheek. She refused to acknowledge the tears that had soaked it had ever been hers. Instead she stared out into the darkness of her cabin, the glow of her tattoos doing little to illuminate the tiny room, and tried to empty her mind. It didn't work. _What am I to do?_

Her mind was already made up about the Keep. She had no plans to let any of the injustices committed within the Keep stand. But that didn't lessen her problems. Reaver was beginning to be more of an issue than she'd ever anticipated. She wasn't sure what to do about him. Perhaps the real problem was that there were as many good memories of him as there were bad. She shook her head. No, that wasn't it. The problem is that she couldn't shake the guilt that she was, in part, to blame.

The day Walter had told her he'd noticed Reaver was spending a lot of time with Elizabeth had been… _alarming_. And intriguing. For the next week, she'd kept an eye on them, trying to evaluate their every action. She'd been…quite pleased, actually, to see he was being polite and attentive. _Friendly_. And Victoria had been relieved. After six months of mourning her brother—three of which had been spent in complete isolation—her work had piled up. Reaver had been bothering her to speak with him, but she just hadn't had the time. _"Soon; I promise."_ It had become a motto of sorts. And then Elizabeth had come to visit, like a bright flower in a dreary room. Victoria had thought it would be a good thing for them to entertain each other. After all, it was Elizabeth's first time away from her family—it was probably thrilling for her to have such an important person so enthusiastic for her attention.

But they'd started becoming secretive. Touching and laughing and whispering in a way that was probably subtly flirtatious if only Victoria hadn't been looking for it. She'd known perfectly well what was happening— _oh, Avo_ , she'd known; how could she not? She'd never had an issue with how many partners he took. During the time they'd lived together, it had been mildly alarming to walk in on him with someone else, but it had never affected her emotionally. This was different. Because, the moment he looked away from Elizabeth's face, the affection and warmth was gone. He'd turn away from her, leaving her smiling over something he'd said, to fix a cold, calculating gaze upon Victoria as though daring her to say something.

And she hadn't. She hadn't said a damn thing, convinced he wouldn't actually do anything to hurt Elizabeth.

She'd been wrong. And everything had ended with her holding her cousin until the sobbing had stopped and arrangements for her return home were made. She'd returned to where she'd left Reaver, not expecting him to still be there and somehow even more furious when he _was_. Watching her without emotion, or even seeming to understand just what the effect of what he'd said to her cousin would be. She'd wanted to arrest him, but there was no law against being an asshole. Instead, Victoria had grabbed him, shoving him bodily towards the exit.

_"Don't you get it?"_ she'd fumed, barely managing to keep from physically attacking him. It was only then that he seemed to realise this wasn't going to end in his favour. _"I don't_ ever _wish to see you again._ I don't want you here. _If you have a single speck of self-preservation, you_ will _leave before I remove you myself."_

But it was very hard to avoid someone she had to work with.

A soft knock on the cabin's door drew her from her thoughts and she lay there, staring at the tiny sliver of light that had appeared under the doorframe. If it was important, they'd knock again or speak. But no one did. And, soon enough, she heard the thud of footsteps retreating down the hall.

Sniffling, Victoria rolled onto her back. Maybe it would be better to let it go. That was the only way continuing to work with Reaver would be tolerable. She'd been faking contentment with her lot for two years now; it wasn't so difficult any more. If she couldn't get away from him, then at least she could stop being angry all the time.

_If you wish to be rid of the thief, then why not strip him of his title and his property and cast him out?_ the Crawler enquired idly, apparently unable to not listen to her thoughts. If rolling one's eyes could be condensed into a voice, then his would have been a perfect match.

A part of her grinned with savage delight. That would solve everything, wouldn't it? She would be free of him and able to return what he'd stolen from so many people. The look on his face if she did so…. Some of the joy she'd felt withered. If she set him up like that, he wouldn't be humiliated…he would be furious. And the first people he would target would be the people closest to her. She didn't want to spend the rest of her life worrying that Reaver was going to kill anyone she cared for. Of course…if she _was_ going to set him up, there was nothing stopping her from forging information to also have him arrested. Locked away from the world in a warded cell he would never be able to leave.

Her stomach twisted and something deep inside her cried at the thought. To never see him again, ever, in any context. To essentially kill him without even having the courage to do it with her own two hands. How could she do that? How could she speak against the way the Keep treated its prisoners and then turn around and advocate for it when it suited her? It was immensely cruel.

_He's always brought out your need for blood_ , the Crawler purred almost affectionately.

_No, that's not true_ , she countered. Or…it wasn't always true. Yes, sometimes he brought out the worst in her.

_The crowd in Blackholm calling for blood. She'd barely been able to keep hold of Droogan's bloodied collar. She was supposed to be choosing his fate, but she didn't care. He was loathsome and repugnant. A pitiful man attempting to be a warlord to hide that he was utterly powerless. She should have sentenced him to death and taken him into custody. But the Crawler had been more active than usual that day, threading its venom through her veins, and the crowd's rage was infectious. So she threw him to them. She stayed just long enough to watch as they began to tear him apart._

_She'd known perfectly well it was time to return to the castle, but Reaver's home was closer. She couldn't fight the urge to break the news to him in person—if only because she knew the loss of a business partner would hurt him and she wasn't thinking clearly. However, when she'd finally arrived at the manse and spoken to him, he hadn't been hurt or angry._

_"Tell me what you did," he'd breathed, voice thick with pride and pleasure. Walking toward her, he drank in the details like wine. Intoxicated by the violence and wrath she'd wrought. And, when he finally touched her, it was like a devotee to their divine._

Cursing under her breath, she brought both hands to her face. _That_ wasn't the man she missed. Not the one who gloried in misfortune and suffering. She missed the man who had fought beside her. The man who had, in those three terrible months of isolation, crept into the castle more nights than not to lay beside her. Who'd held her to his chest until the shaking stopped. Who'd whispered stories against her brow in languages she didn't know to keep the nightmares away. Who had not mocked her when the liquor bottles she'd kept for guests were the only things that helped her sleep…nor when she'd decided she couldn't take being a slave to the drink anymore. The man she…

…cared for. Once. Who she thought, maybe, she could be friends with. But she was starting to think that man wasn't real. Just a figment of a lonely, lonely mind. Someone she would never meet again.

Swearing off sleep, she sat up and tried to untangle the blankets from her legs. The linens had wrapped around her like serpents, tight enough to chafe and make getting up a proper mess. It was a few minutes before she was free and able to light a lamp. _I may as well research_ , she thought grumpily, reaching into her bag for one of her books.

Curled up with the large tome propped against her knees, she tried to focus on the page's words. But it was impossible to read about Old Kingdom rituals when she was becoming increasingly aware of an emotion that made her almost feel sick. Guilt. It seeped through her veins like poison; traitorous and unwelcome. But it had every right to be there.

For all she'd said about Reaver betraying her, she'd never told him about the Crawler. He'd gone out of his way to comfort her and she'd never thought to trust him. And this journey…how many times had he saved her or listened to her instructions when she needed it? Certainly, he'd been a child the entire time. But he'd also made an effort to work with her. Her hands tightened against the book cover. He'd come of his own volition when he'd heard she had been attacked. Had that been… _concern_? For her wellbeing? Despite all the terrible things she'd said to him?

_You tragic fucking degenerate!_ she raged at herself, slamming her book shut as the Crawler grumbled a complaint at her. Giving up, she dropped the book into her bag and rummaged about for some clothes. Damn Reaver and Milton and anyone else on this Avo-forsaken ship, but she couldn't stay in this room any longer.

She stormed out of her room and onto the deck, expecting to be greeted by blinding sunlight, only to find night had fallen. On first glance, the ship was empty but for a pair of soldiers drinking and chatting at the stern. But, no, _he_ was there, leaning against the portside bow railing and staring into the depths of the sea as if they were old confidants.

Victoria considered turning around and going back into her room. But she couldn't stand the thought of sitting alone in the dark any longer. And she wasn't about to hide from him. Taking a deep breath, she started walking, only stopping once she had reached the railing beside him and she could casually lean against it.

"What a surprise," Reaver murmured, seemingly to himself. He held a cigarette in one hand, wrist limp against the railing. "How _fortuitous_ to find I'm _not_ the only one still awake."

She didn't immediately answer. Instead, watching him out of the corner of her eye, she tried to figure out just what he was thinking. He looked as tired as she felt. And…somehow lost. Like he felt every single one of his long years and he no longer was a part of this time. Removed. Staring at the smoke curling from his cigarette like neither it nor he was really there.

She didn't know what to say. The silence between them felt loud and heavy. Almost painful. Her throat burned with all the things she wanted to say, but the words died before reaching her lips; trapped as though an invisible hand had clamped down around her neck. Forcing her to keep quiet. This felt wrong.

"Why her?" she finally managed to whisper. Every syllable felt like broken glass against her tongue. "Why did you have to use her?"

Staring at her hands against the rail, she heard him shift, turning towards her. She forced herself not to look at him.

After a moment he, far too evenly, replied: "I used her…because it would hurt you more than anything else I could _ever_ do."

She couldn't help but stare at him now. Words strangled in her throat, choking and painful. Her stomach ached as though he'd punched her. "W—?"

"Why?" he finished for her when the word failed to manifest in full. He gave a short laugh, so bitter and humourless she almost didn't recognise the sound. "You really don't know, do you?"

_No. No, I don't_. Victoria couldn't seem to say the words, though. She didn't understand. What had she done that was so terrible that it would deserve… _that?_

"It would almost be _amusing_ if it weren't so—" He cut himself off as though continuing on was saying more than he was willing to. Tilting his head slightly, he enquired, "Tell me: do any of us who _don't_ factor into your grand quest to 'help Albion' _actually_ matter to you?" Heedless of her attempts to cut him off, Reaver continued: "It certainly seems we don't. You use us for your games, you treat us as though we're important to you, and then you throw us aside when you've no more use for us. Though I may be guilty of doing the same, I have _never_ made a habit of pretending otherwise. _I'm not your toy_ , Victoria."

"Nor am I yours!"

" _No_. You're not. But you certainly like to play like one, don't you?" As she stared, aghast, at him, the anger in his expression seemed to sour with further resentment. Almost too quietly for her to hear, he murmured, "I could have gotten on my knees before the entire court and _begged_ for you to look at me—to spare me five minutes of your time for something that was important—but you wouldn't have seen me, would you? You think I have no agency. I don't _exist_ to you when you don't need me."

Victoria's first instinct was to deny it. However, the more she thought about it, the more she realised he was right. The first time she'd ever considered caring about his thoughts and wants was when it had benefitted her—when she needed an ally. Now that she needed him again, she was open to the idea. _"You only keep me near because you want me"_. She'd assumed he'd meant that as a generalisation—that she only kept him around in general because she wanted him sexually. But…what if that had been wrong? What if he meant it in relation to their quest? That she only was allowing him to stay with her because she finally had a use for him again. Her stomach twisted. "I—I didn't intend—"

"Of course you didn't. That would require a level of awareness you do not possess."

She flinched, staring down at her hands. Her cheeks and eyes burned. She refused to admit that the dampness on her face was anything other than sea spray.

He cursed, stepping back from the railing. She snuck a glance in his direction just in time to see him press a hand to his face as though he hadn't intended on saying that aloud.

For a time, they stood in silence. This time it felt hollow; no longer painful, but broken all the same. The words were gone. Language had abandoned them for shores that would use it with kinder intent. Victoria couldn't seem to stop the tremors running through her. She wanted to sit, but was afraid that, if she moved from her spot, her despairing tears would no longer be silent. And still everything felt so empty.

_We fucked everything up._ "So what happens now?"

Her words came out in a lost, hopeless sort of whisper and hung on the cool breeze longer than they should have. She didn't expect an answer. If anything, she expected Reaver to leave. And then, very quietly, she heard him reply: "I don't know."

Somehow it was both agonising and comforting to hear. To know they both didn't know where to go from here. She supposed she could tell him she didn't want to speak with him or see him anymore—that their business would now be conducted via middle man and that he would no longer be allowed entrance to the castle. But that didn't feel right. It didn't solve the actual problems. All it would do was help her thoroughly avoid them.

And she…missed him. She didn't know if it was wrong, but she felt it nonetheless. It didn't excuse anything, but at least it helped her to know where she stood. And maybe it made the options available to them seem more appealing.

"I'm so tired of us fighting," she finally said, turning away from the rail to face him. "Why do we always have to fight? Why can't we just—" she broke off, momentarily looking up to the starry sky as she sucked in a deep breath— "Can we stop? _Please_ , can we…can we have a truce?"

This time the fear his silence inspired wasn't that he'd leave. It was that he would refuse her. Mock her. Laugh and say she'd brought this upon herself. Instead, he dropped his cigarette onto the deck and casually stepped on it though it was long burnt out.

He didn't seem able to look her in the eye as he enquired, "Are you suggesting we start over?"

Surprised, she simply stared at him. As appealing as she would admit it sounded, she hadn't expected him to be the one to suggest it. She'd expected to either be ignored or to have to fight over it. Her mind didn't quite seem to know how to catch up. And, when it did, she tried to think it over as thoroughly as possible. On one hand, if she agreed, then they could actively ignore all the stupid and terrible things they'd done in the name of peace. On the other….

"No," she replied, pleased to hear her voice sounded almost normal and not distraught. "If we ignore it…starting over _won't_ fix anything. It's just more playing pretend. We'll sit here, acting like all the fuck ups never happened, but they _did_. No, I was suggesting we accept what's happened and we take it…and we build from there. That we grow from it and we learn, so that one day we might move forward as part— _allies_."

"That sounds very avant-garde for us, doesn't it?" he said, a touch of cautious cheer seeping into his tone. "A ceasefire sounds…yes." He paused as though considering saying more, only to give a short nod. " _Yes._ "

_It's not going to be easy_. But there was a quiet sort of peace filling her. Making her feel light and calm. From the back of her mind, the Crawler scoffed, but she paid him no heed. There were still things that needed to be addressed. Problems she and Reaver would have to work on. Perhaps they wouldn't be resolved overnight, but the fact that they were both aware…she hoped they could make something good out of it. At the very least, a friendship. Maybe even…no, she didn't want to get ahead of herself. This was enough for now.

In the absence of sadness, the exhaustion she'd been trying to deny had crept back in. And a flush was beginning to work its way up her neck the longer Reaver stared at her. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other.

"I'm going to—" she gestured vaguely back towards the door below deck— "if you…are open to us discussing this further in the morning?"

_Smooth; really smooth, you great fool_ , she thought.

With the closest to a dignified snort he'd managed, Reaver held out a hand. Curious, she accepted it. Hand-in-hand, he led her back towards her cabin.

They'd just reached the door opening below when he abruptly began: "Victoria, I—" He didn't seem able to get the rest of the words out and, after almost thirty seconds of lost silence, he finally grimaced, sighed, and said, "I stole the singing fish."

It didn't at all sound like what she was assuming he'd intended to say—the tone was all wrong and it didn't seem grave enough for his previous countenance—and it took her a long moment before she realised he was talking about the fish in Ms. Godwin's house. Still, she couldn't help but laugh. "Why am I not even a little bit surprised?"

And, together, they descended into the ship.

~ * ~

They docked at the Keep around dusk. Victoria's spirits hadn't been higher in some time. She was actually…excited about the upcoming quest. Finding General Turner, putting things to rights. She had no idea how she wanted to handle him, but she was hoping for a swift, painless resolution.

Reaver elected to remain with the ship (" _we go in, we immediately turn back around; it's far more sensible for me to just remain here_ ") as Milton and Victoria made their way up to the prison. Despite Victoria's mood, everything else felt sombre and tense. Ms. Godwin, still unconscious, felt heavy in her arms. Hazy rain followed their ascent up the hill, making their footsteps echo with sharp smacks. It was almost a blessing to finally enter the prison.

"I'm going to see what Hobson's found on General Turner," Milton informed her as the doors slammed shut behind them. He wasn't happy, she knew, that she had gone after Godwin without him. However, Victoria declined to believe there was a problem. Ms. Godwin had been retrieved—though not entirely safely, she was still alive—and that was that.

"Alright. I'm going to get Ms. Godwin to the infirmary," she replied. "I'll meet you both soon."

They parted each other's company. Ravenscar Keep still felt unfriendly and brooding, but she was more comfortable traversing its halls now. She nodded greetings to soldiers as she passed.

The infirmary was quiet and mostly empty when she entered. Mr. Faraday was asleep. Victoria was pleased to note he looked healthier than before—less frail and no longer entirely sickly. Jericho looked up from her book at Victoria's entrance and immediately got up to help her put Godwin in a bed.

"What happened?" Jericho asked, concern drenching her voice.

"She took a potion. I don't know what it was meant to do, but it…did terrible things." The memory of her screams was still terrifying. She shuddered. "She hasn't woken since."

Jericho shook her head. "I'll keep an eye on her and make certain she's well. Perhaps she'll have an answer when she wakes."

"I hope so. How's Mr. Faraday been?"

"Better…I think. When he's not asleep, he's been talking a lot. Explaining his research and creations. It's…fascinating, really. I asked him to keep in contact with me when he's released." She paused. "Personal feelings aside, the nurses believe he has a bout of influenza and they're concerned it may progress to consumption if they're not careful. Mr. Faraday claims it's nothing so serious, but he's taking his medications well."

She fell into an uneasy silence and Victoria frowned. "Did something happen while we were gone?"

"I…don't know," Jericho confided. "The guards talk a lot when they think no one's listening—they're too used to prisoners who can't go spilling their secrets. I heard a few talking about the boiler room and how much they hate patrolling it. Apparently, for at least the last six months, they've been hearing strange sounds coming from there in the dead of night. A few of the guards think it's haunted now. I went to investigate and…I can't say what the sounds were. I asked Mr. Faraday and he said it sounded like some form of current, but he didn't know for certain since he wasn't there."

"Perhaps, once he's better, we can go investigate."

Jericho shook her head. "That's not all. I heard another guard complaining that three of their shift vanished."

"Perhaps they were just having a lie in?" Victoria offered. Concern was coalescing in her gut, though. A painful feeling of wrongness and she knew even before Jericho answered that her suggestion was bollocks.

"That's what one of the others suggested, but he said he'd looked. No one from their shift was in the barracks. They were awake…but not where they were meant to be."

"Could they have been attacked?"

"It's possible, but I'm…worried. I suspect something is happening here."

Victoria considered it—thought over all the strange feelings this quest had given her from the start and all of her misgivings. She considered the ease of which three high security prisoners had escaped and how well set in two of them had been when she'd gone to retrieve them. About how secretive and evasive Milton had always been. Her Will crackled in response. "I was going to see what Hobson had found, but I think I'll have to ask Commander Milton some questions before I do. I'll be back in a couple hours at most. If I'm not, bar the doors and protect Mr. Faraday and Ms. Godwin. Reaver's down at the docks. If you can, try to get a signal or something to him."

"I will."

Bidding her farewell, Victoria left the infirmary behind. The halls had regained a sinister quality. She tried to rein in her Will, but it was erratic and almost angry. The shadows seemed to twitch as she passed. The Crawler was blessedly silent, but she could feel it, alert and lurking, at the back of her mind.

The records room, when she reached it, had been ransacked. Papers had been pulled from the file cabinets and spilt across the floor like snow drifts. The longcase clock had been pushed over, glass shattering across the floor. One of the bookcases had been ripped from the wall, revealing a tunnel into darkness. Hobson lay unconscious on the floor and she crouched beside him to wake him up.

"I…Your Majesty? When…what…what happened?" he slurred, slowly getting to his feet.

"I was about to ask you the same question," Victoria replied. "What do you remember?"

He sat down on the edge of the desk, rubbing his forehead. "I-we were discussing what I had found on General Turner. The Commander gasped, I…I don't know what happened next."

Victoria searched his face for signs of deception and found none. _Commander Milton's not here…was he taken? Did he get away from whoever attacked them? Or…has General Turner been here all along? What's going on?_ She looked up at the tunnel, so invitingly open and not blocked by smashed furniture. "Hobson, are you fine to walk?" She waited for him to reply in the affirmative and added, "Reaver's at the docks. I need you to tell him to find me, and then I need you to go seek refuge with Jericho. Can you do that?"

"But, Your Majesty, what—?"

"I'm going to take care of this. Please go, Hobson."

She waited for him to toddle off and stepped into the tunnel. It was dark and cold—eerily still. The tunnel sloped into a staircase, winding deeper and deeper under the prison. All sound was gone. Her fingers were numb with cold and the steep steps were slick and narrow. She reached out to steady herself on the stairs and found the stone was damp and icy. Where on earth did this lead? Why was it even there? Did a prison really need a secret passageway to the centre of the earth?

It felt like hours passed, despite how impossible that was, before she finally reached the bottom of the stairs. She came out into a meagrely lit storage room with crates stacked nearly as tall as she was. It was still oddly still and silent. Curious, she pried open a couple of crates and peered inside. They were full of strange, mechanical-looking bits and bobs. Strange, she thought, that the Keep would have such things if there wasn't anyone with mechanical know-how stationed there. Carefully replacing the lids of the crates, she moved towards the door.

It opened into the boiler room and, almost immediately, she felt on edge. Perhaps the storage room was where the strange noises had come from to make the soldiers worry it was haunted? Someone had to have been using it. _Jericho's right; something's happening here_. The boiler clanked and groaned loud enough to mask her footsteps and, as she entered the room, she became aware of an odd hum. It lingered gratingly beneath the other noises.

"What _is_ that?" she murmured. It was almost annoying, the electrical equivalent of nails on a chalkboard. She shook her head, trying to clear it. The volume was growing louder. There was a split second of alarm as she realised she needed to move, and then everything went black.


	9. What Makes A Hero?

_Wake up. Wake up, child. We are in danger._

Opening her eyes hadn't been so hard in ages. She could hear the clatter of machinery and the faint buzz of electricity. She couldn't move, though, and whatever she was sitting on felt hard and unyielding. The Crawler hissed at her to wake up once more and she tried to open her eyes.

The world was a dark, blue-ish blur. She could see someone moving around, but couldn't make them out. Blinking as though it would clear her head, she turned her gaze down to her hands. Through the foggy haze of her vision, she could barely make out that there were shackles holding her wrists down. She could feel them more than she could see them—heavy, hard bars pressing into her skin. Confused, she turned her gaze back up.

"You're awake, Your Majesty," a voice said from somewhere before her. "Good. I was almost afraid I set too high a charge. But, then again, _you_ have powers the rest of us could only _dream_ of."

"I… _Milton_ , is that _you?_ " she slurred, trying to shake her head. She couldn't, something was holding it in place. "I was worried you were hurt by Turner."

"Turner wasn't a threat…to me or otherwise. General Turner was the finest soldier I ever served under, the finest man I ever knew…he died six months ago."

The room was beginning to clear. She could see him now, the stern look of distaste on his features. As his words registered, she felt a surge of wry amusement. _So now the truth comes out_. Her mouth felt dry and unpleasant, but she managed to enquire: "Then why? Why pretend he was to blame? All it does is paint him in a worse light."

"I couldn't save his life," Milton replied, scowling as though admitting it left him with a bitter taste. "And I wasn't about to let everything he believed in die with him. You see, it's time for a _true_ revolution. I've seen Bowerstone and how deep the corruption has spread. I've seen what Albion has become under the monarchy!"

Victoria let out a bark of humourless laughter, disbelief surging through her veins. "You've been stuck on an island for years—you've seen _nothing_. You didn't fight Logan or the Crawler or help us rebuild. You sat here, fuming and crying like a spoilt child and _you did nothing_. You could have had a say in what we built, but you didn't even try. You wasted your chance. You're a coward, Milton. But, _certainly_ , blame me. Threaten me. Harass me. Attack me. Paint me into a monster if you must—I know I must look a damn sight better with claws and fangs, but that doesn't change all the good I've done. Nor everything I'm about to do."

"That's the problem with tyrants, _Your Majesty_. None of you realise when it's time to step down. And how does one bring down a queen? How does one bring down a Hero? By _becoming_ one." He crossed over to a large control panel that Victoria recognized as looking similar to one Godwin had had in her lab.

The Crawler hissed. _Foolish man, ungrateful brat, rip him_ —

Victoria tried to pull herself free, the chair was too sturdy. She recognized the room now; it was the place they'd held shock treatments in. A surge of fear ran through her followed by a burst of denial. This _couldn't_ be happening.

"I'm almost sorry," Milton told her…and then he flipped the switch.

Every muscle in her body clenched, tightening so much she thought something might snap. A burning seared through her, travelling from her head to her feet. She tried to pull on her Will—control the electricity the way she controlled fire, but it was unresponsive. Through the pain, she noticed the wires atop Milton's contraption glowed blue…as did something dripping from the machine and into a vial. In her agony, she reached threads of Will towards the Crawler; begging, pleading….

The current stopped. Victoria sucked down a shaky, choking breath. _The vial…oh, no_. Images of Ms. Godwin came to mind. The alchemist writhing, screaming on the floor. "That's…you can't take that."

He wasn't listening. He carefully removed the vial, staring at it as though it held all the secrets in the world, and then inclined it in her direction as though offering a toast. "To the end of kings and queens."

Milton downed it in a single gulp.

As Victoria began to panic, Milton gasped. The vial slipped from his hand, shattering on the floor. He dropped to his knees. An unholy transformation was occurring: flesh bubbling, bones bursting from their sockets, muscles contorting, hair shifting. It was her, she realised with a stab of horror. He was _becoming_ her.

The transformation began to slow, Will lines glowing on his hands and neck. He stared at his hand— _her_ hand—as though transfixed. And then something went wrong. He spluttered, gasping. Curling in on himself as though he were being kicked in the stomach. Victoria tried to pull at her bindings once more, but they were immovable. And, before her, the entire transformation was reversing itself. And suddenly he was himself again. But the markings of Will had not faded and, as he staggered to his feet, she realised he had wings. _Wings_. A couple of people had claimed she had occasionally sported wings in battle, but she'd never laid eyes on them. To know they were _real_ …something that _could_ happen, she was floored. And terrified. _Get me out of here_.

Milton stared at his hands a moment, frowning until a fireball appeared in his palm. "That didn't go quite as planned, but I can't deny the side effects are…useful. And, with these powers, it won't be hard to start a government…even if we must lose our ruler and a few civilians in the process."

Something was rising to the surface within her. Victoria laughed; she couldn't help herself and it wasn't a pleasant sort of laugh. Oh, certainly, Hobson was no threat…except, perhaps, to a bag of gold, but the others? Jericho was extremely skilled; just because she elected to _not_ kill people didn't mean she couldn't. As for Reaver…well…there was a reason no one but Page had tried to assassinate him in years.

"What's so amusing?"

"You're a fool, Milton." Her tattoos went black, wisps of darkness rising from them like smoke. She could feel the Crawler stretching; unravelling and spreading beneath her skin as if she were only a glove it wore—prickling and uncomfortable but welcome compared to the agony of the shock chair. Waves of Will—unfamiliar and malignant—choked her veins. The shadows of the room twitched, writhing and drawing closer, and a tar-like substance seeped from the cracks of the chair. It flowed over her hands and every bit of metal it touched rusted and crumbled to dust. Within second she was free; she shoved the cage holding her head in place away and rose almost gracefully to her feet. _He has Will now,_ she thought, unsure if it was directed to the Crawler or herself, _but he doesn't have all the practice he needs to control it. Chances are he'll overdraw and that'll be the end of it…I just need to convince him to do it_. "You think you're the Hero Albion needs, but really you're as greedy and selfish as you claim _I_ am. Why else would you need my powers to help the government reform…unless they were _the only thing_ you wanted all along?"

Her sheathes were missing, but she didn't care. The Crawler had taken care of it: tar dripping from her hands, solidifying into a jagged blade.

_The children provide for us_ , the Crawler murmured as Milton launched himself forward, wings arching high as he attempted to slash at her. Victoria stepped aside, raising her blade to, almost casually, knock aside Milton's sword.

"I am not fighting for myself!" Milton insisted, lunging at her once more. "I am fighting for Albion!"

"You may be fighting for Albion, but you are _not_ fighting for its people," Victoria replied coolly. Once more, she batted away his blade. Fury had made him clumsy, but that wasn't making this easier. _This is going to take forever if he keeps using a sword_ , she thought, vaguely annoyed. A cackle rang through her mind in response. Milton made as if to stab her and she brought her sword down on his, attempting to keep it trapped and immobile. "Think about what you're doing Milton. This is not the route of a selfless man."

He wrenched the sword free, shoving her back in the same movement. "And what you've done _is_?" he spat, readying his sword once more...only to pause. Threads of darkness spread along the blade, cracks expanding and consuming the metal. With a shout of alarm, he dropped his sword. In seconds, the blade was nothing more than crumbled, rusted metal. Milton gaped up at her as though he'd never quite seen her properly before. "You're not—" a pause and then— "What— _what_ are you?"

"I am a _Hero_ , Commander."

She threw herself aside as a he loosed a fireball. She could feel the heat of it on her skin as it flew by, the tingle of Will at its edges. It missed her entirely, crashing instead into the shock chairs and blowing what was left into bits. She felt the Crawler's blade vanish, fading into nothing, and threw her own spell back at him. It was weak—the magical equivalent of a light punch—and off target, but it distracted Milton enough for her to leap to her feet. She threw up a barrier just in time to block his next attack. The urge to fight back was growing, but she didn't want him to start focusing on defending against her. Instead, she directed a bolt of lightning at the machinery behind him. Sparks cascaded over the metal, glass cracked, and the device exploded with a wave of choking smoke. _Now no one can ever use it again_.

Milton seemed to be struggling to figure out how to work other spells—he would start one, and then lose it as it formed itself back into a flame. He kept casting, though. Quick, moderately powered spells as though he might catch her unaware between blocking and dodging. The first burst of unfocused Will came as a surprise to them both. A wave of force that Victoria almost didn't dodge in time, crashing into the wall like a massive fist. Milton's Will lines dimmed momentarily before brightening again. She had to fight the urge to smile. _Good. Do that again_. Filling her hands with flames, she unleashed them, giving Milton just enough time to throw himself out of the way.

The next burst was more powerful, but somehow less focused; as though the effort it took to power the spell was too great for him to keep track of exactly where he wanted it to go. Victoria didn't even try dodging. She threw a shield around herself, wincing at the crackle of Will surrounding her as Milton's cast washed over her shield. It almost hurt. Prickling through her veins unpleasantly; flickering at the edges of her Will like invasive fingers. Gathering her Will, she pushed the shield toward him, knocking him off his feet. She was beginning to feel a warning tug of exhaustion at the edges of her mind. _I can't do this much longer_ , she realised as he pulled himself to his feet.

Victoria could feel her shield start to splinter under the impact of his next spell, throwing more Will into the barrier as the barrier redirected Milton's Will around her. Slowly dropping to her knees as the spell sapped her strength. As Milton's Will died out, she cut power to her shields. _No more power_. On her hands and knees, she cast a brief thought to Reaver, wondering where he was and wishing he were there.

"So ends the monarchy," Milton intoned, almost solemnly. His Will lines had gone dark, faded from view. He raised his hands, readying a spell, only for the Will to flicker out. He tried once more, Will lines flaring briefly in response to the extra burst of power...only to stop with a pained gasp.

She watched him fall to his knees, staring aghast at her. _If there had been a better way_ , she thought, _I might have warned you_. But there wasn't. Blood dribbled from his eyes and ears, his Will lines had once more vanished completely.

"I-I don't—"

"You tried to use more power than you had…so it took it from the only place it could," she explained. Her legs felt weak, head sluggish and faint-feeling. She'd burned too much energy herself, but luckily she still had some left…enough to survive on, at the very least.

He lay there panting, clutching at his chest as though it would save him. It was too late. "This can't—I-I can't—" Defiantly, he tried to pull himself up; instead, he collapsed once more. "Maybe it's for the better," he murmured, after a long moment had passed. "That power, I-I don't know that I could have given that up. Maybe this is as it should be."

Head swimming, she bit back her initial thought—that this was why she didn't currently trust others to take the throne; it wouldn't help. Milton would just be angry. But she wondered…was this the real reason so many people had once despised and murdered countless Heroes? No one had trusted that their powers weren't going to be abused and lorded over the rest of the populace? It was easy to say otherwise when the side you're condemning is dead.

"Remember this, Your Majesty," Milton added sharply, drawing her attention once more. "Albion doesn't _need_ you to sit on the throne. The people _will_ claim their freedom."

"And I will stand aside for them if they do," she replied. It was the truth, even if no one would have believed it.

Darkness crowded her vision. She watched as Milton grew still. Her arms lost the strength to hold her and she slumped to the ground. Just before she passed out she heard the clatter of running footsteps. The door opened and a tall figure was silhouetted against it. And then there was nothing.

~ * ~

The room was cool, infusing her skin with a faint chill. Victoria slowly opened her eyes and realised she was in the infirmary. She didn't feel too badly injured. Her hands felt tender, but she supposed it could have been worse. With a faint groan, she sat up. Wan moonlight flooded the room through barred windows, making the blue glow of her tattoos oddly muted and allowing her to see who else occupied the room. It was for naught, though. Everyone was asleep. Reaver slumped in a chair that was too small for his lanky frame and Jericho curled up into a ball, rabbit-like, on another chair. Across the room, Hobson was sprawled on his back, snoring. To her right, Ms. Godwin lay on her side, breathing softly and sleeping soundly.

"She woke briefly before you were discovered."

Victoria whirled around, finding Faraday awake and watching her evenly. He looked little better than the last time she'd seen him—greying hair mussed and face gaunt—but he didn't look quite so frail and tired. He almost seemed in pleasant spirits. Not quite happy, but no longer in emotional turmoil. Realising he'd spoken to her, she tried to focus her thoughts. "Did she say anything? Was she alright?"

He gestured vaguely and replied, "She cried and screamed for her work and her creatures…the nurses had to sedate her. They feared she would harm herself."

She looked away, trying not to curse. She'd been afraid of that. Had saving her been the wrong choice? Would it have been better to let her die? The thought made her feel sick.

"He would not say it, but he worried for you," Faraday informed her and, when she looked up, she realised his pointed look was directed at Reaver. "He would not let anyone touch you until he was certain they wouldn't harm you."

_Stop that_ , she told herself at the rush of warmth that flooded her body in response. _We have more important things to worry about_. "Mr. Faraday…does everyone…erm…know…."

"Does everyone know that the Commander attempted to kill you and died in the process? Yes." He ran a hand through his hair. "I suppose there will be enquiries made—a new warden will need to be selected."

"Not just a new warden," Victoria replied. "A new everything. I need to make it clear I'm not my brother. Repair everything he broke. Turn the Keep into a place where people can actually reform if they want to…free those imprisoned wrongly. So many things I haven't even considered yet." She glanced towards him. "I could benefit from an experienced mind such as yours, Mr. Faraday."

He smiled wearily. "I think your Head of Industry would have things to say about that."

"There's always room for more. Co-Heads, I suppose. Only a bit grander of a title."

Faraday laughed, the sound turning into a cough half-way through. "That's a kind offer, Your Majesty. Perhaps one day. For now…I would like to return home and restore my island. Perhaps we can help each other then."

She returned his smile. "I'd like that, Mr. Faraday."

They chatted until weariness overtook them. As Victoria lay there in her cot, she thought over what was to come. Starting tomorrow, everything was going to be busy again.

_We did well_ , she thought, feeling the Crawler stir slightly.

The Crawler scoffed. _You have very low expectations for us, child_.

Victoria smiled and, when she finally fell asleep, it was unbothered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I ate too much cake and got over excited and had to post this today. Anywho. We've come full circle. And look! A happy ending...from me, of all people. Isn't it delightful? It would be a shame if something horrible were to happen to this lovely scene, wouldn't it? -innocent af-


	10. Epilogue: An Unopened Letter

_My own;_

_Are you getting these wherever you are? I know the answer is no; I can see the proof in this steadily growing pile. And yet, every time, I hope there will be a response. As if my words can somehow reach you. As if it's so easy for you to reach back to me._

_Dear one, I wish you could see your daughter. She grows more like you by the day. Cunning, powerful, kind—dare I say wise? She struggles with what she must do, but I know you would be proud. I certainly am._

_She asks of you often. And I am running out of stories to tell her. Not because I've relayed all of your deeds, only just that I don't know what to say. She Sees so much, but she only sees you in a certain light. Do I dare ruin that for her? Do I only speak of your good deeds? Do I spare her the tales of those you have sacrificed to reach your goals?_

_I fear what may happen if she catches me in a lie. I cannot lose her as I have lost you. And so I will tell her everything. If only because she deserves to know the truth. Perhaps, when you return, you will forgive me. We both know you've forgiven much worse of me in the past._

_Until then, I remain your loyal attendant._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmm...now where could this have come from? Perhaps the narrator dropped it? Well, regardless, I leave the fate of this series in your hands. Do you want Blackout? If yes, I'll post it when it's ready. If not...well. To everyone who has supported this series, you have my undying gratitude. It means a lot to me to see all of your kind words and your enthusiasm. If you're interested in seeing what I'm up to, don't feel shy about coming to visit on tumblr (link on my profile). Until we meet again.


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